


The Maimed King

by Sath



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Realistic Descriptions of Injuries, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, past Thranduil/Girion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Elves of Mirkwood abruptly cut off all trade, Bard's children are kidnapped. Blaming the growing evil in Mirkwood, Bard searches for them in the halls of the Elvenking, where he discovers that Thranduil's mind has sickened along with the forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the man who dreamed of fairyland

Mirkwood had been blighted for over a thousand years, but it had been a predictable sickness: its terrors did not enter the river, and a lone barge could make its way to the Elven docks unmolested. He knew the forest shores far better than he would have liked, and what he now saw upon them was no normal fog. If it were not for the faint light of the sun through the clouds, Bard would have thought it was closer to midnight than midday.

There was a rancid sweetness to the air, pungent and sharp like rotting fruit. Or meat, Bard thought as he drew closer to the docks. He nearly smiled when he saw that the Elves were still there, the fog hanging back from their bright lanterns and the tall torches set into the rocky river’s edge.

“Hail,” Bard said, disconcerted to see that none of the Elves looked familiar to him. “I have brought fine Dorwinion wine, as requested by our old agreement.”

None of them moved to fasten his boat to the dock. The one who seemed to be their head, a redhaired Elf, tightened her grip on her sword. If Bard reached for his bow, he did not doubt she would gut him before he could draw.

“This will be the last of the wine, bargeman,” the Elf replied. At her nod, two Elves came forward to secure his boat. Others rushed onto the deck, lifting heavy barrels over their narrow shoulders as if they weighed no more than a bag of flour. She tossed Bard a heavy bag of gold, easily triple the normal price.

“ _This_ is my livelihood.” No matter if he was overpaid or not, losing trade with the Elves would force him to beg the Master for a license for new routes, which were already thinned by the loss of Erebor.

“Then value it,” she snapped. “Trade elsewhere. Lock your door at night. We are not as we once were. There is evil waking in the south, and our king suffers an old wound.”

She gave the stern a kick, sending his lightened barge back along the river’s current. Her Elves began to retreat, and the fog closed in with them.

“Do not look behind you as you leave,” she said.

Bard did not.

* * *

The Master barely glanced up from attending to his flat-faced dogs to reject Bard’s petition.

“Whatever you have done to offend the Elves is not my responsibility. You simply can’t afford the fees for the Iron Hills. Have you tried apologizing to them?”

“I have traded with them for almost two decades; I have known that forest longer than my own children. Something is wrong in Mirkwood.”

“Beyond the spiders? Perhaps they have discovered temperance.”

Bard clenched his fists. “There is fog. And a smell like corruption.”

The Master chuckled. “Water condensation and a bit of stink has you frightened. Very well, I shall transfer your license to someone with a less sensitive nose. Here is my advice to you, and I shall give it for free: find another line of work more suited to your superstitions. Augury, or fortune-telling.”

“But I have three children!”

“A fact you should’ve kept better in mind before wasting my time.” The Master leaned forward at his desk, templing his fingers and affecting an air of compassion. “I give you one last chance to retain your right to the Mirkwood-Rhûn route, and this is only out of respect to your line and your proliferation of children. You may have that or nothing.”

The Master had already bled the people of Laketown white, and now he would mock Bard as he forced him to choose between providing for his children or leaving them fatherless. _Lock your doors_ , the Elf had commanded. The gold was as convincing as her tone.

“I will have nothing,” Bard said.

“Oh good, then you can get out of my sight.”

Bard did not know where he found the restraint to keep his hands at his sides instead of around the Master’s throat. Almost dizzy with anger, his head pounded as he stumbled back to his home. He took a few moments to compose himself before he entered, not wanting his children to see him as he was. When he finally opened the door, he was able to smile.

Only Tilda didn’t realize something was wrong immediately. “How did your business with the Master go?” Bain asked.

“As always,” Bard replied. It wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Will you be leaving again soon?” said Sigrid.

“Not for a while.”

They would all leave together, as soon as Bard knew where they could go. Tilda embraced him in excitement, still too young to piece together what it meant for Bard to stay. His older children exchanged worried looks.

“All will be well,” Bard said.

* * *

Bard’s route was given to Harald, a decent man whose most crooked act was marrying the Master’s cousin. Harald had always seemed embarrassed to benefit from the association, and almost fell into the lake in his haste to avoid speaking to Bard.

“I didn’t ask for it,” Harald declared, loudly enough for others to hear.

“I know you didn’t, because I gave it up. Mirkwood’s not safe.”

“Mirkwood’s never been safe. What’s gotten into you, Bard? Fear is unlike you.”

“The Elves said they’re not buying more wine.”

That made Harald pause. “From you, maybe.”

“There’s nothing for anyone in that cursed wood. I was told to lock my door at night.”

“Or they’ll come over the threshold and steal our children, like in an old wives’ tale?”

Bard had considered it. “Would you disbelieve an Elf?”

“I might not take them entirely at their word,” Harald replied. “Wood Elves are a different sort than the Elves of legend. I heard that the Elvenking cheated the Dwarves, and we already know how much they like to have a tipple. Hardly better than us, don’t you think?”

“Hardly better, but longer-lived. ”

Harald put his hand on Bard’s shoulder. “We’re both fathers, and we have our children to provide for. I wish you free of this fancy. I’ll do my best to convince the Master you haven’t gone completely mad, just taken up a queer notion about Elves.”

Everyone paid so little heed to Bard’s warning that he began to worry he’d been wrong. But the Elves had no reason to drive him off; they probably couldn’t remember any of the Men who came to their shores, and Bard would do as well as anyone else. He said goodbye to Harald and set his shoulders against what was to come, whether it be known or unknown.

* * *

Harald was supposed to have returned from Mirkwood almost three days ago. His wife, Geira, was getting anxious, and blamed Bard for the lateness. She caught him on his way back from the market, as he was trying to stretch out his gold on salted fish and  _cram._

“Why’d you let him leave?” Geira asked, yanking on the sleeve of his coat. “If Harald doesn’t come home, we’ll be ruined.”

“There was nothing more I could do, short of tying him to your doorpost,” Bard replied. “Your uncle would never let you starve, so direct your begging to richer pockets than mine.”

“How dare you!”

Bard shook her off his sleeve and made his way home while she cursed at him. The sun was setting by the time he made his way back. He hid the bland food under his jacket, though there was hardly any putting off letting the children know they would have old sturgeon again. While Bain and Sigrid played cards, Tilda was learning out the window. Bard darted forward to yank her back before she could overbalance and fall.

“Watch yourself! The two of you were supposed to be keeping an eye on her,” Bard said, glaring at them.

“Da, there’s flashing lights outside again,” Tilda said.

“Again?”

On the Mirkwood side of the river, there were almost a dozen golden lights, bobbing in the air as if they were dancing. His mother, a woman of Bree, had once told him tales of eldritch lights over the Barrow-Downs, which lured travelers to their deaths.

“How many times have you seen them?”

“Most nights, ever since you came back,” she answered. “Are they dangerous?”

One of the lights seemed to be headed straight for Laketown. Bard slammed the shutters closed. “Keep away from the windows. All of you.”

On the lake, he heard voices raised in alarm. Bard grabbed his bow and hurried outside, prepared to see some foul thing lifting itself out of the water. But there was only a boat, slowly drifting past the walkways. The barge sat low in the water, as if the barrels were still full. No one was at the helm.

“Whose boat is that?” asked Bain. “How did it get past the gates?”

“I told you to stay inside.”

“I think I recognize the pattern on the hull – that’s Harald’s boat, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Bard replied.

Bain tried his best not to look fearful as the Master’s men arrived to pick over the boat. He was brave, but still only a boy. “So he’s dead.”

“Maybe. But there’s nothing we can do tonight. Back inside, Bain.”

His son didn’t argue. Whatever had sent the boat back to Lake-town would not make itself known that night, if it ever did. Bard would stay awake through the night, but tomorrow, they would leave - though they had nowhere to go.

* * *

The sound of harping brought Bard out of his slumber. He could not remember closing his eyes; he had seated himself across from the window, ready to wait out the dawn. Swelling with the rhythm of strange voices speaking a strange tongue, the music grew louder. The shutters were wide open, looking out onto the distant green horizon of Mirkwood. Night had passed.

Bard did not realize what he had lost until the music faded. His children’s beds were made as neatly as if they were preparing for guests. He had listened well to the old stories about Wood Elves stealing into people’s homes, taking infants from their cribs and luring children into the forest. The superstition was obvious; the Elves of Mirkwood had never wanted anything to do with Men beyond trade. What would an Elf-king do with a mortal child? Mortal lives would have seemed no longer than a dog’s. But Bard had awoken to his greatest fear: three empty beds. Three empty beds. The full horror of it crept into him by inches, like the slow clutch of his heart as he cared for his wife in her final days. He could not succumb to panic or grief when there was so little time. Bard allowed himself a moment of weakness, to take the gasping breaths of a man terrified and helpless, before forcing it into the same dark place as his other losses. There could be no more. Gathering up his bow and traveling pack, he fled his home of many years, to return with his children or not at all.

Laketown was on edge. Alfrid caught up to him as he prepared to take out his barge. “I have no time for you,” Bard growled.

“The Master wants to talk to you about—”

Bard cut him off by holding a dagger to his throat. “To the dragon with the Master. My children were taken in the night, and I will bring them back.”

Alfrid darted away while the guards approached with their hands on the hilts of their swords.

“I’m going to Mirkwood. That should be enough for the Master’s curiosity,” Bard said. “Unless any of you would rather go?”

“Ah, no. That was all the Master was planning to ask of you,” Alfrid replied with an obsequious bow. “Safe journeys.”

“Aye.”

The gatekeeper waved Bard through without a word. There was just enough wind to catch the sails and clear weather across the lake, the first good omen of the day. If the river was kind, he could reach the Wood Elves’ realm within three days. If he did not sleep, he could arrive in less than two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the poem by Yeats. I've borrowed pretty liberally from the Irish Sidhe to add to the culture of the Wood Elves, with a little touch of the Fisher King.


	2. the path of stones and the wood of thorns

Light was just breaking over the trees when Bard arrived at the dock. Though the fog had cleared from the forest, it did nothing to break the sense of a place befouled. The torches were still burning fitfully, despite the absence of the Elves. Bard tied up his boat and pressed onward, following the narrow path towards what he hoped was the Elvenking’s palace. He kept his bow in his hand.

Mirkwood was not quiet. Scuttling sounds came from the darkened trees, and not just from the black squirrels and other small creatures. The smell of rot was underlaid by something else, stale like a room closed up for too long. He always felt eyes upon him, and sometimes saw them, first in pairs, then fours. How the Elves had ever stayed in Mirkwood was incomprehensible; they may have long carried madness within them.

“Nestling, can you smell it? Here’s a better morsel than we’ve had in a long time,” said a voice like the scraping of a saw.

Bard spun around with an arrow notched to his bow, pointing straight at the cluster of eyes in the darkness.

“Not so sweet as Elf-flesh, but tastier than those wretched Dwarves which escaped us,” said another spider.

“But it is on the path, nestling. There is still a little piercing in it.”

“Perhaps it will get lost.”

“Perhaps.”

For only a moment, he saw the monstrous body of the spider passing through the trees, its swollen belly lifted up by its misshapen legs. So the spiders could speak after all.

“They always get lost,” the spider said as it disappeared deeper into the woods.

The spiders took the rest of the noise with them. He soon came upon a narrow stone bridge and a forbidding set of blue doors cut into a rocky hill. The Wood Elves had carved their palace into a cave, massive like nothing else Bard had ever seen.

Bard had not planned how to get inside. He would try the simplest way first: knocking on the door. But before he could even rap his hand on the wood, the door soundlessly opened outwards. He breathed in the fresh air, sweet as spring flowers, finally free of Mirkwood’s oppressive stink. The ceiling was so high Bard could barely see the stone above. Lights everywhere cast warmth without smoke, and Bard felt heartened at the same time he felt his hackles rising. There was enchantment here, and not entirely friendly.

An Elf approached with his palms up in a gesture of welcome. “A mortal come to Mirkwood - a rare sight in these dwindling days. What brings you here, bargeman? If you have something to sell, we are in no mood to buy, but you are welcome to stay a while, and dine.”

“You seem to be entertaining more mortals than I, in these ‘dwindling days,’” Bard replied, wary of an invitation so freely given by a reclusive folk.   

“You have had visitors, then?” The Elf came closer, giving Bard an appraising look. “Yes, I think you have. What is your name?”

“Bard of Laketown.”

“Well then, Bard of Laketown, go where you will.” The Elf leaned in to whisper, “Do not get lost. You are unlikely to find yourself again.”

With no further words, Bard was left to himself in the grand fortress of the Wood Elves. Chiseling out the stone must have been the work of centuries, and the ornamentation centuries more. As he stepped out into a sprawling chamber so huge that all of Laketown could be fit inside, he realized how very small his life must seem to his indifferent hosts. Despite the scale of their dwelling, there appeared to be hardly any inhabitants, merely halls upon empty halls.

How had the Elf thought Bard would find his way, and to where? There had been something off about the Elf beyond the perfunctory greeting and obscure warning, as if he were not entirely present. Searching for one path which seemed most likely, he saw many stairs leading upwards, but only one going down. If he were to keep something hidden, Bard would bury it deep. He began the long descent, watchful of the growing shadows and the seeming lack of an end. No amount of caution kept him from the strong hands which pulled him into an alcove. Bard reached for the knife at his belt only to see that it was the redhaired Elf from the docks.

“I told you to stay away,” she whispered. “Why did you come here? Tell me quietly - there are spies everywhere.”

“My children disappeared overnight. Who was it, if not your people?”

She frowned. “I know hardly more than you; our king has forbidden us from leaving. How did you get inside? Did no one stop you?”

“Another Elf welcomed me and told me to stay, then left my sight.”

“I hope that is a fair omen, and not ill. This place is protected by old magic, though it grows ever weaker. Pray that was what guided you here, for it was none of us.”

Too much of Mirkwood had a voice and a mind, and when even the spiders spoke, Bard’s own senses could betray him. “Could this magic have taken my children?”

“If it did, only the king can release them. You must help lift the madness which has seized my lord Thranduil, for Mirkwood and its king are of one mind, and we are not immune to his influence either. Our dreams are troubled, and I cannot account for all I do.”

“How could I be of any help?” What did she think Bard would be able to do that she could not? Steer a boat?

“Thranduil trusts no one, not even his son. You are mortal, too insignificant to be suspected, amusing in your rarity. Thranduil may let you near him. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

Bard had no reason to trust her, despite her earlier warning. It could have all been part of a larger trap which had led him to Mirkwood. But as she had said, Bard was no one to the Elves. Spying on the Elvenking seemed only as dangerous as anything else in this cursed land, and he needed an ally. If she had truly wanted Bard to bend to her will, she need only have said she knew where his children were.

“I will help you, if I can.”

“Thank you,” she said, with more warmth than Bard thought Elves ever had. “My name is Tauriel.”

“Bard.”

“Well then, Bard, allow me to introduce you. It is a rare occasion to have visitors - you nearly walked yourself into our dungeons.”

On their way out, Bard could’ve sworn he heard bare feet on the steps.

* * *

Tauriel led Bard deeper inside the palace, where he finally began to encounter other Elves. They would pass by with startled eyes and their hands on their weapons, but a few words from Tauriel set them at ease. None of them looked untroubled.

At last, they reached one of the dining halls. The room was brighter, and there were Elves laughing and drinking at the table. Haunches of venison and other meats were laid out with fruits and vegetables from every season. There were stories of starving travelers in Mirkwood being led to their deaths by disappearing feasts, hearing only laughter when they ran towards the empty stands of trees.

A slender, blond Elf rose to his feet and gave what sounded like an order to Tauriel. She protectively held her arm in front of Bard while she gave her reply.

“What is your business here?” the Elf demanded in Dalish.

“One of my fellows left to trade with your people. His boat drifted into Laketown two days ago, empty.”

“His death, if he even is dead, is not on our hands. We warned you that we would no longer engage in trade,” said the Elf.

“I merely came for information.”

“My lord Legolas, Bard arrived unchallenged,” Tauriel said. “Though you may not want him here, someone does.”

A flicker of doubt, or perhaps interest, crossed Legolas’s face. “My father will already know that he’s here.” Legolas gestured towards an empty chair. “My apologies, Bard of Laketown. We are unused to guests.”

One of the Elves offered Bard a glass of red wine as soon as he sat down. “No, thank you,” Bard said.

“Do you abstain?” she asked.

“I am already weary. Chances are, I was the one who brought that wine up the river, before you ended all trade.”

Raising her eyebrows, she began to idly turn one of the rings on her fingers. “It will not last forever. Though for you, it may be too long. Have we caused you hardship? Surely Laketown does business with more places than Mirkwood.”

“Not all the people of Laketown can do business where they would like.”

“The dragon has seen to that,” she said. She held up one of her rings, set with bright red stones, for Bard to see. “How long would this keep you?”

“Is this charity?” To accept would be humiliating, but Bard could not decide for himself alone.

“Only if you do not care to tell me about Smaug the Great and Terrible, and to drink some wine. Your people must have some tales, and I’ve grown tired of our own.”

Bard looked to Tauriel for a sign of warning, but she gave none. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip. So long as he ate, he could stay alert. Music was being played somewhere close by, and though it sounded nothing like what he’d heard when his children were taken, it was familiar all the same. The Elven woman with the ring did not take her eyes off Bard, her elegant features drawn with wolfish curiosity.

“Laketown does not have many stories of the dragon,” Bard replied, helping himself to some bread, “for no one now living has seen him, though we have all lost family in Dale. The ruined city on the shore is enough reminder.  But my grandfather left me with a few things to tell.”

He told her of Girion and the Black Arrow, feeling more and more distant from himself, almost as if he were sleepwalking. As Bard tried to finish the story, he struggled not to see it before his own eyes. The dragon fire which had consumed Dale was spreading over the lake, the flames growing higher and higher until they licked at the roof of his home.

Bard came to his senses with a start, reeling as he realized he was on his feet. Instead of the dining hall, he was in what appeared to be someone’s private chambers, though like so much of the Elves’ cave, it was open on one side. There was a pool of bright blue water in the center, and columns shaped to look like trees. Only a peculiar people would have continued Mirkwood underground. He was alone in the room but for the Elf standing by the pool, hands clasped behind his back. It seemed there was as much of a difference between the Elf standing before him and the other Elves he’d met as there was between Bard and their whole race. 

Thranduil did have the air that people called kingly; it was the entitled, noble aspect of someone who had been born into power, with all its obligations and blessings. He could not have been more alien to Bard.

“Forgive me, but I was telling a story, and I somehow found myself here,” Bard said, adding, “my lord.”

“Stories have a way of getting away from you, especially in this place,” he replied, stepping closer. “What has really brought you to me, Bard of Laketown?”

“As I told the others, I am looking for a missing bargeman.”

“Mirkwood has an abundance of creatures which could have seized your fellow, and you know well enough that what floats down the River Running will eventually reach the Long Lake. Lie to me again and you may meet some of these creatures yourself when we close the doors behind you.” Thranduil’s threat was made flatly, as if the mechanics of Bard’s death were of no interest to him.

“Strange lights from Mirkwood have come towards Laketown for some weeks now. And while the forest may not be half so known to me as it is to any of your subjects, you have surely noticed that mist and stench lies heavy on your lands.” Bard tried to keep his tone even and respectful. “Others in Laketown have gone missing overnight.”

“These others must be close to you,” Thranduil said, his voice taking on a conciliatory edge.

If Thranduil already suspected, there was no more sense in keeping his purpose hidden, and Bard was not above trying to play to his pity, if he had any. “They are my children, my lord, and I have been their sole keeper since my wife died.”

Something about Thranduil’s expression changed, though Bard could not identify how. “That explains the fear in your eyes; I did not think you the kind to tremble before kings,” Thranduil replied, appraising Bard like a jeweler would. “You resemble Girion, the Lord of Dale.”

“He was my ancestor.”

“Your line has fallen far, if you are a bargeman.” He delivered the insult with a polite smile.

“Titles do not change someone’s character.”

“But they very much change his company.” Thranduil turned away to gaze over the rest of his palace. “I cannot trust my own people. They serve their own interests, not mine. Girion was an honorable Man, and brave. I confess that I do not know where your children are. Nonetheless, it is within my power to find them.”

“Are they safe?”

“Safer than they were in the dragon’s shadow.”

A small part of the dread in Bard eased, only to be replaced with visions of fire.

“Before I do you this favor, you must pledge your service to me. I will not need you for very long,” Thranduil said, gripping Bard by the shoulders. Bard stiffened, struggling not to let the king know of his discomfort. For a moment, Thranduil’s face seemed mutilated by burns, his left cheek wasted to the muscle beneath a sightless eye.

“I will do as you command, my lord.”

Thranduil released him. “Good. You will be led to a guest room when you leave. Tell no one what you have agreed to do, and I will come for you in the morning.”

No sign remained that Thranduil’s transformation had ever occurred; his skin was whole, perfect and glowing with health, yet Bard did not doubt what he’d seen. One vision of the king had been an illusion, and the other the truth. Judging by the state of Mirkwood, the fairer face was the lie.

“There is nothing else for you here, Lake-man,” said Thranduil. “Sleep while you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Yeats's "He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World."
> 
> I went with 'Dalish' instead of 'Dalian' for the language spoken by the Men of Dale since it's a Germanic suffix and agrees with most of the other language names, i.e. Hobbitish.


	3. I dreamed that one had died in a strange place

The guest room was fitted with ordinary, although fine, Dalish furniture. Bard was almost reassured. The sole Elvish thing was the bedding, which had been embroidered with a scene of hunters pursuing a white hart. 

“The original bedding had decayed, so it was replaced. Is there anything else you need?” Bard’s escort asked.

“Only sleep,” Bard replied.

The Elf gave him a dismissive nod and went to stand outside the door. Bard made a show of being exhausted, yawning and throwing his coat on the floor before collapsing into the soft mattress. After a few minutes of snoring, he heard his guard walk away. Dragging himself up from the goose down was a struggle, but he had to return to the dungeon. Though the halls were traversed by twisting paths, he now knew enough to use the royal quarters as a waypoint.

It was not long before he found his way back to the winding stair. He could hear angry voices speaking a language that Bard had heard before from the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. Bard pitied the captive Dwarves, escaping from the spiders only to be captured by Elves. While turning a corner, something barreled into Bard’s waist, sending him stumbling backwards. What had run into him looked like a child, except the face was a grown man’s, with pointed ears. A halfling?

“How many races are the Elves keeping here?” Bard asked.

“Just two, though I suppose it’s three now,” the halfling said. His eyes were wary, and he nervously kept one hand in his pocket. “You’re not locked up.”

“I’m a guest. But you seem more like a burglar to me.”

The halfling smiled wryly. “Not a very good one. Mr. Bilbo Baggins, at your service. My company has gotten themselves imprisoned, and I’m left stealing what I can until I think of how to get them out again. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas?”

“People do not simply ‘get’ imprisoned. What did your company do?”

“Nothing more than getting lost in the woods,” said Bilbo. “Our leader, Thorin, has a grudge against the Elvenking and there will be no leaving here until he gives in or goes entirely gray. I am not as long-lived as a Dwarf, so this is all very unfortunate for me. What should I call you, other than Man?”

“Bard. Have you seen any children here? Mortal children.”

“Yours, I take it? I wish I knew. I’ve seen no children of any kind, not even an Elf, and I’ve been all over this cursed cave. The strangeness of this place even touches my dreams.”

“The strangeness of this place makes me doubt you’re really here.”

“That makes two of us!” Bilbo replied with a chuckle. “But I hope you’re real, Bard, even if you’re as trapped as I am – ‘guest’ and ‘prisoner’ are only separated by politeness. Fare you well,” he said, adding with a bow, “and don’t tell anyone I’m here. Perhaps we may be of help to each other later.”

“Good luck, little burglar.”

For someone who’d confessed to being bad at sneaking around, Bilbo left Bard’s sight almost instantly. Knowing his children were not within the cells left Bard conflicted, for he worried they were in some worse place, or not even in the palace at all. He had nothing to trust but the word of a king whose own people thought him disturbed. Bard needed to sleep; pushing his body still further would do him no good, though it would lessen the guilt which rose within him at any wasted moment. He barely had time to think that he’d never slept in a more comfortable bed before exhaustion claimed him.

* * *

Bard was back in his own home. His children were asleep in their beds. There wasn’t a sign of care in their faces, though Bain was quietly snoring in the way which Sigrid liked to silence with the thump of a pillow. He knew he was dreaming, but dreams surely mattered more here than in Laketown. The house was unchanged, save for the heavy presence of heat, like stepping out at the height of summer.  Bard took a moment to hold Tilda’s hand and kiss her forehead before he opened the door. 

At first, he saw only darkness. He could hear a deep rumbling, like a distant thunderhead rolling over the lake. Then as his eyes adjusted, he made out a faint glint of light where the horizon should have been. Rocky soil was beneath his feet, and above him were walls of jagged stone, their shape too regular to be natural. It grew warmer as Bard walked forward, enough to make his collar prickle against his neck as he began to sweat.

The rumbling was the breath of a dragon, ruddy-scaled and enormous, guarding a golden hoard. Even in a dream, the beast froze Bard’s blood. Its eyes were large as banners, its lips peeled back over fangs as tall as horses. Rising from within the dragon’s coils was a tall throne decorated with the antlers of an elk, and even in the weak illumination he recognized Thranduil sitting upon it. He was wearing battered armor, holding one hand up to his left cheek while he stared at the ground below. Was this Bard’s nightmare, or Thranduil’s?

The dragon swiped one baleful eye over Bard before leveling its gaze on an Elven warrior who’d come from the shadows. She lifted up her sword and shield, her expression grim as she struggled to keep her grip steady.

“You are no dragonslayer,” said the dragon, its growl echoing. “Nor will you even have the dignity of a grave.”

“Even if you didn’t lie, worm, your threats are empty, desperate and craven, like your master,” she said.

Snarling and lunging forward, the dragon’s muscles strained with a sound like crashing metal. For one moment she blocked its snapping mouth with her shield, before the great jaws closed over her helpless body. She struck out with her sword even as the dragon’s teeth impaled her and cracked her bones. Her head lolled back, blood spilling from her mouth. As the dragon shook her until her limbs stilled, the scream Bard heard was male. The last thing he saw was a spear piercing the dragon’s eye.

* * *

Bard awoke with a gasp, his pillow damp with sweat.  A dream had not affected him so deeply for many years. Thranduil was standing next to the bed, appearing a little less haughty in traveling clothes. He must have brought Bard out of his nightmare.

“What did you see?” he asked.

Pushing his disheveled hair off his forehead, Bard replied, “I dreamt I was at home, with my children.”  

“Is that all?”

“All that I care to remember.” Bard tried to ease the kink in his back as he set his feet on the floor.

“It’s often wiser to forget,” Thranduil replied. “Get your belongings together; we are departing for the Misty Mountains.”

“None of the roads west are safe. How large is our party?”

A smile played at the corner of Thranduil’s lips. “You are looking at it. Two may go where many cannot, and this is a personal matter, not one of state. Does that frighten you?”

“It would frighten anyone who’s not a fool.” Bard gathered up his bow and quiver, hoping they would prove adequate against the Woodmen and other scattered peoples who lived west of Dale. Though most of them were honorable, others had taken to brigandage. 

“You are of no use to me if you come to harm, Bard. I trust you are skilled with that bow and will not be a burden – the Men of Dale used to be very fond of poaching, before the spiders came north.”

“Aye, and I hope I won’t have to prove it to you,” said Bard, “although my skills probably don’t compare to an Elf lord’s.”

“I’m sure they do not.”  

Bard was starting to think Thranduil’s rudeness was more of a private, wicked humor. Thranduil did not question him further as he led him elsewhere in the palace. There were even more secret ways than Bard had suspected, and they did not encounter anyone else until Thranduil opened the door to the royal stables. A sleepy groom jumped to his feet and rattled off a quick apology before bringing out two horses, a white and a bay.

“The white mare’s name translates to Lightstep,” said the groom. “And the gelding’s Brazen. She’ll follow his lead. Your supplies are already loaded.”

Thranduil took the bay’s reins while the groom handed the mare off to Bard. “When Legolas questions you, tell him I have reconsidered my position. We are riding to Rivendell, and I rely upon him to rule in my absence,” Thranduil said, mounting his horse.  

“Safe journey, my lord. And to you as well, Lake-man,” the groom added. He steadied the mare as Bard got into the saddle, which would have bothered him more if it hadn’t been so useful. Bard didn’t consider himself a bad horseman, but it had been several years since he’d ridden, and most of his experience had been with ragged ponies. His horse took off after Thranduil’s with only a slight nudge, eager to leave the stable.  

After bracing himself for the same dark, oppressive forest as yesterday, Bard found himself squinting against the strong morning light. For all the corruption he had seen in the trees on his way in, they were that much livelier on the other side; it was like walking from winter to summer. And while the trees were taller here, they were also greener, more welcoming than menacing. The sight brought a smile to Bard’s face, and even to Thranduil’s.

“I did not think Mirkwood could cheer me,” Bard said. His horse nimbly stepped over tree roots as she stayed close enough to the bay that Bard could have reached out and touched Thranduil’s sleeve.

“All of Mirkwood was once like this. You may not have heard that the forest was first called Greenwood the Great, for that was long ago even by the standards of Elves. We have preserved this small part only through constant struggle.” Thranduil looked ahead, a crease between his brows as his mouth set in an unhappy line. “Of late, Mirkwood does not respond as it used to, even to me.”

“It’s true then, that you are linked to your lands.”

“Did Tauriel tell you?” He did not seem displeased. “When the Men of Dale first arrived, I gave them some of the wood to the south of the river. The Lords tended to it as a hunting ground, and I was less disturbed by Dol Goldur from that direction. Girion had favored the wood most of all, and the room you slept in had been kept for him after his own fashion, for I considered him a friend.”

Who had Thranduil really seen, when he’d first looked over Bard? It felt like Bard had been pulled into some unfinished tale by an accident of birth, compelled by larger forces to finish Girion’s part. “Is that why you hold my children hostage to secure my loyalty? My lineage?”

Thranduil’s eyes widened with offense. “Do you think me so dishonorable?” he said. “Mirkwood seized your children, and I do not doubt that they were targeted because these woods remember your blood. I would free them immediately if it were in my power. Last night I found your children held too closely, and it shames me to say that I cannot restore them to you until I have restored myself. If it eases your mind, they are not suffering; they are sleeping deeply, as you dreamt this morning.”

The relief left Bard on the verge of tears. Although no reassurance would ever be enough when his children were out of his sight, he could now at least think of them dreaming. “Thank you. And I am sorry for the insult, my lord.”

“I do not usually bear them so lightly, but if Legolas were taken from me, I would not be trusting either. Yet since he has come of age, I feel it is only a matter of time before he leaves of his own accord.”

As they traveled further away from the Elven halls, Mirkwood turned more sinister. Thranduil’s presence had driven away the spiders, but the horses began to shy away from the trees and quicken their steps.  The trees seemed to change whenever Bard looked away, as if the horses were moving at great speed. At last, Bard saw the fading evening light coming from beyond the wood, shining over the open plains which lay beyond the Lonely Mountain. They couldn’t have been riding for more than four hours at most, and yet they had somehow traveled more than forty miles.

“How did we get here so quickly?”

“Distances can be made flexible.” Thranduil observed Bard’s uneasiness with amusement. “I must disquiet you again, Bard. We will be riding beneath the Grey Mountains, and I cannot be a target for the Men and Orcs who wander there.”

“Even without fine robes and a crown, you are still an Elf, which is a great prize for anyone brave enough to take it.”

“Then I shall remove the temptation. Look away for a moment.”

Imagining that Thranduil was putting on a hood, Bard averted his eyes. Not the best disguise, but good enough at a distance.

“It is done.”

Bard swore. What he saw in front of him was not an Elf; Thranduil had assumed the appearance of a Man hardly more than thirty years of age. All of his features were dimmed, as if filtered through a shuttered window. Even his hair was now a common shade of blond, reaching no further than his shoulders.  His expression, however, was still shadowed by his age.

“There is still some light left, and I intend to use it,” Thranduil said, his voice unchanged. Bard had never thought he would find an Elf eerier without his beauty, although Thranduil was handsome enough to have turned half the heads in Laketown.

“We are not going to Rivendell, are we?” asked Bard.

“No.”

Thranduil did not say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title again comes from Yeats, "A Dream of Death."


	4. the arrow

They did not make such miraculously good time in the plains as they had in the forest. Distances were absolute again; the mountains came no closer than they should. Riding yesterday had gone easily, followed by a dreamless sleep. But whatever magic had propelled the horses through Mirkwood had apparently not worked on Bard’s thighs, for they were protesting every mile. The grimace he woke up with was enough to give Thranduil pause after he’d finished nudging Bard with his boot, and the king deigned to say that Bard should do stretches first. Sitting astride Lightstep (misnamed: she had a tendency to prance), Bard glumly wondered how long it would take his legs to adjust to the abuse.

He almost missed Mirkwood, for there had been things other than grass in that forest. And being in the winter season, the plains’ grass was brown and dead, spotted with occasional patches of dirty snow. But life was not completely absent. Skinny wolves chased after stunted deer, while foxes chased up rabbits. Thranduil avoided signs of settlement, not wishing to chance any uncertain hospitality. The plains were marked by occasional inclines and even hills, which Thranduil had told him were actually burial mounds.

“They cannot all be dead kings of Men,” Bard said, after they had passed the eighth.

“You’re right; some of them are petty lords and others are elevated robbers. That barrow to our east belonged to Sibbi Elf-Consort, so named for his attempts to buy an Elven wife. We took the gold and said he could wed any she-Elf he could beat at arm-wrestling. We also accepted his gifts of rich fabric, strong wine, and some ermine. He could not best anyone at log-rolling either.” 

“You’re smirking ‒ did he give up when he ran out of spirit? Or was it bad knees?”

“He married an even richer man’s daughter and discovered he preferred earthly rewards to immortal fame. A finer ending than many of his sort ever received.”  

Thranduil was unexpectedly good company, after Mirkwood and its shadows had faded behind them.  He was a practiced storyteller, and while he was still haughty, he did not demand royal treatment. There were many kinder tales of the Elvenking, who had long counseled the Lords of Dale and dealt fairly with their people, and wondered how the Wood Elves had come to be so changed that they would seal themselves off from the rest of the world. With Thranduil’s illusion of mortality and his plain clothing, Bard came too close to forgetting that he was traveling with someone he’d first known in rumor and legend.

“Do I remind you of Girion?”

“Somewhat. Your nose is better-favored.”

“I did not expect to be compared that way,” Bard replied, unsure of whether Thranduil was being serious or not, “but I thank you for the compliment.”

“You may earn more, if you can best him at other things,” Thranduil said, a playful curve to his lips. “You boasted that you were a fair shot with a bow.”

“I did not boast, I stated.”

“Do you see the rabbit on that far hill?” Thranduil asked, pointing to the northwest. 

If Bard squinted against the weak sunlight, he could see a rabbit grazing some two hundred yards away. “Girion was quite skilled.”

“He could make more difficult shots, but I would have coney for dinner.”

Bard reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. “You’d be going hungry if you’d taken anyone else with you,” he replied, taking out his bow. The wind was blowing a little to the south. Nocking an arrow, he lifted up the bow and sighted along the arrow’s head, keeping just to the right of the rabbit’s chest. Archery had always been one of Bard’s greatest joys, both for the pride of making a true shot and the feel of drawing back the string, knowing how much power was in his hands. He resisted trying for a trick shot and hitting the rabbit in the head, for he wouldn’t get a second chance. If he hit the rabbit anywhere, the shock would kill it even if the arrow did not. Anchoring the string against his cheek, Bard slowly exhaled as he released the arrow.

The rabbit was knocked on its back, the arrow buried in its neck.

“Let me know if you’d like breakfast from somewhere farther away.”

“Impressive,” said Thranduil, gifting Bard with a gracious smile before he urged his horse towards the hill at a canter.

“Impressive’s not much of a compliment.” Bard retrieved his arrow from the rabbit’s neck and tied its legs to his saddle bag. Lightstep was admirably trained; she didn’t shy at the smell of blood.

“Lake-man, I can remember such hosts of Elves, Men, Orcs, and other foul creatures in these very fields as would have filled the horizon. Kingdoms of Men have risen and fallen in my shadow. I am not easily impressed by mortals.”

“But have you ever seen one of them hit supper from two hundred yards away?”

That, at last, broke through Thranduil’s restraint and made him laugh. But the expression quickly faded as he saw something on the horizon to the east. Bard followed his gaze and saw a faraway cloud of dust.

“That’s no campfire,” Bard said.

“It looks like a group of riders ‒ at least a dozen. I doubt they would be friendly to us.”

“We could avoid them if we went back into Mirkwood.”

Thranduil shook his head. “I hold little power in that part of the forest. We would become a target of worse things than spiders or bandits. Nevertheless, we should keep some distance.”   

As they rounded the hill, they saw a hooded man sitting alone, smoking a pipe. He had a weighty pack beside him and a sword in a battered sheath at his belt, but he made no move to reach for it. His boots showed signs of rough wear, and Bard could not tell if his cloak was truly grey, or merely faded.

“Well met,” he said. “Or not. If you’ve come to rob me, you’ll only get stale bread and an almost passing cheese. And this is the last of the pipeweed.”

“We’re not robbers,” Bard replied. Thranduil kept silent; his Dalish was good, but accented. “We’re from Laketown, on our way to Bree.”

“You’re taking an odd way to get there.”

“And where are you going?”

“To the south. I cannot tell you yet where my final destination will be.” He took another long drag on his pipe.

“Have you encountered anyone else on the road?”

The man gestured towards where they had seen dust. “A band of thirteen slavers with some fifteen horses, and several archers among them. There hasn’t been that sort of trade out here since Angmar fell. I’ve seen their kind taking Dwarves and Men to the South, and even towards Gundabad. Whatever business you have in Bree, I recommend you stay there.”

“What need do the Orcs have for slaves? Their own kind are hardier.”

“But it would not spread fear,” he said. “And that is their true purpose.”

Gundabad loomed in the east; it had been a constant fixture of the horizon since they had left Mirkwood. Bard suspected it was Thranduil’s final destination, for there was nothing else in that direction but the ruins of Framsburg. “Thank you for the warning,” Bard said, unhooking the rabbit and holding it out. “This will go with your bread and cheese.”

When the man got to his feet to take the rabbit, he was of a striking height. “Good luck to you,” he replied, his face younger than Bard had thought at first. He nodded to Thranduil and tipped his hood as if it were a hat.

“And to you,” replied Bard.

After they left the man’s sight, Thranduil remarked, “That was kind of you.”

“If you’re worried about going hungry, I can shoot another.” Bard kept looking behind them for signs of pursuit; he had not entirely trusted the man’s manner. “Do you think he was a scout for the riders? Or that he will betray us?”

“He will not. He was one of the Dúnedain. A Ranger, as you would call them. It is not a good sign to have seen him on the road. We must press our horses harder.”

* * *

Dinner was Elven bread eaten on the move. There were no further signs of others, even to Thranduil’s eyes. The calm of the day was completely broken, and no more friendly words passed between Bard and Thranduil. Instead they were silent, each preoccupied with sensing threats – or in Bard’s case, anticipating the worst. Thranduil appeared wary but not concerned, though Bard doubted he ever allowed himself to show any sign of worry. It seemed un-kingly. The horses were starting to tire, lather gathering on their chests and the unmistakable sweet smell of horse sweat rising up. “We have to stop,” Thranduil said, slowing his horse to a walk. Lightstep followed suit with no encouragement from Bard. “The horses can’t take any more.”

“We haven’t put enough distance between us yet.”

“I agree, but I don’t care to be cruel, nor to walk the rest of the way.”

He was right. Lightstep’s sides were heaving and her breath came loudly as she held her head down. As soon as Bard dismounted, the mare shook off some of the sweat, showering him with it. Bard preferred boats for many reasons. They led their horses to the shelter of a hillside, as the wind was beginning to strengthen and winter came harder in the mountains than in Laketown. Coming to a halt brought terrible pain with it, as Bard’s legs started to uncramp.

“Perhaps we may as well camp here, after a search.  Night’s coming on fast, and I wouldn’t want to be in open country, particularly with exhausted horses,” said Bard. “Though there’s more places to hide in these hills than I would like.”

“It’s the character of this land,” Thranduil replied, “and I’ve always hated it.”

“That’s a strong word for somewhere nearly empty.”

Bard heard the arrow before he saw it embedded in Lightstep’s flank. She screamed and bolted, nearly knocking Bard over. The gelding was struck in the cheek as he fled, more arrows erupting from his ribs as he stumbled to the ground. Thranduil had drawn his swords before Bard could even ready his bow, but the setting sun had still left most of the land in deep shadow, and there was little a swordsman could do against an unseen archer. Bard fired an arrow into the deepest darkness, thinking to drive them off by putting up a fight. Someone choked, and there was the answering whistle of more arrows in flight. At this range, they would not miss. Bard thought of his children.

Thranduil pushed Bard out of the way at great speed. The arrows struck him instead, one burying itself in the hollow of his shoulder, and the other deep in his gut. Thranduil collapsed to his knees, his eyes wide in pained shock as blood rushed from his wounds, pooling in the grass. His rattling breath was that of the nearly dead. Bard kneeled next to him, too stunned to do anything more than hold Thranduil upright as he feebly gripped Bard’s coat, blood coating Bard’s hands and making them slip. The illusion on Thranduil’s face faded into its true Elven form as his burns briefly appeared in high relief, before becoming unmarked once more.

“An Elf! That’s a find which’ll make us rich as lords,” said a voice from on top of the hill, “if he doesn’t bleed out first. You had rotten luck to walk into the far side of our camp; we were hoping to draw out the longshanks we saw earlier, but you’ll do much better.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luckily, Thranduil's had worse injuries. 
> 
> Aragorn makes a surprising and technically anachronistic cameo in this, since he should've been around ten during the events of _The Hobbit_ , but since Thranduil mentions him at the end of BOTFA, I figure he's fair game for tacking on another decade to his age. 
> 
> Chapter titles are pretty much consistently Yeats refs now.


	5. the grey cairn on the hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detailed description of medieval surgery is below, with about as much blood as you’d expect. If you’d like to skip the worst of it, ctrl+f ‘Girion’ or scroll down to the dialogue where he’s mentioned if you’re on mobile.

The first time Bard saw something die, he was ten, and it was the family’s pig. His mother decided he was old enough and brought Bard with her to slaughter the animal. The pig had been trussed up on its side and laid out on a table with a bucket under its neck. “It’s important to do this mercifully,” she told him, and brought the knife to its neck while the pig wriggled in discomfort. She slit its throat in one quick movement, leaving the blood to flow into the bucket while the pig squealed. Then she cut the windpipe, and the only noise was the draining of blood. Bard could not stop remembering the scene that night, holding his hands to his neck as he thought of the gaping red hole in the pig’s throat. He had never seen how easy it was to die before.  

“Stop the bleeding,” Thranduil murmured, pressing against his wounded shoulder. Blood rushed over his fingers and soaked his hair.

One of the slavers joined them on the ground. “I’m what passes for a surgeon here,” he said, in Westron accented by Rohan. “Either of these wounds will kill a man.”

Thranduil glared at him weakly. “Particularly if he’s being tended to by the village farrier.”  

“I’ve heard of Elves surviving worse things,” said their apparent leader, staying well away. His voice had not been the one from the hill. The rest of his men kept their weapons trained on Thranduil, as if he were only feigning injury. There seemed to be only twelve of them, instead of the thirteen counted by the Dúnedan. “Lodric, you know well enough what the reward will be for keeping him alive.”

“I’ll need your help,” Lodric told Bard. “I hope you’ve got a strong stomach, as mine’s already turning. Let’s lay him down; Elf or no, he’s still ready to faint.”

They used a bedroll to keep Thranduil’s head elevated. Thranduil’s breathing had turned shallow, and he’d become so pale his eyes were an even more startling blue. Bard’s chest was prickly and hot from his blood-drenched shirt.

“Panic later, not now,” Lodric said. “This next part’s the worst. I hope you know how to sew.”

“Aye.”

“Good. I’m going to remove the arrow, and I’ll need you to sew up the vessels, just like you’re darning a sock, as I pinch them off. He might fight us, if he’s not raving already. Resting a knee on his arm will do the trick. And if it’s any comfort to you, I’ve heard they hardly feel any pain.”

Lodric pressed a sewing kit into Bard’s hands, then gripped the arrow at the base of the shaft and braced his other hand against Thranduil’s shoulder. “I’ll pull when you’ve readied the needle. There’s about to be a lot more blood.”

Bard’s hands were steady as he threaded the needle with what felt like fishing line, grateful for all the times Sigrid had torn her skirts as a little girl. Thranduil was somehow remaining conscious, though his expression was haggard. Lodric yanked out the arrow without warning, causing the blood to spurt across his arm and land a few feet away on the grass before he thrust his fingers inside and stopped the flow.

“That’s a good sign. It’s just a nick, see?”

Everything looked the same, like a mutilated cut of raw meat. Bard focused between Lodric’s fingers, finally seeing where the vessel had been cut by less than a breadth of a thumbnail. “Hurry, there’s the vein left,” Lodric told him. Bard kept his breathing controlled as he stitched, trying not to think of how Thranduil hadn’t yet made a sound. Lodric switched to another vessel, this one leaking a steady flow of darker blood. The cut was larger this time, though still so small Bard wouldn’t have thought it could do so much harm. The moment Bard finished, Lodric took the needle from his hands and sewed up the arrow wound with practiced fingers.

Thranduil was struggling to keep his eyes open. “With that technique, you’d make a poor tailor,” he whispered. Bard found himself squeezing Thranduil’s hand in relief.

“We’re not through yet,” Lodric said, pointing to the second arrow. “That needs to come out, though I want nothing to do with it. By the look of the bleeding, it landed in the bowel and there’s no surviving that.”

“You shouldn’t have taken the shot,” Thranduil muttered. “Girion, your arm will fail you.”

“Is your name Girion?” Lodric asked.  

“He was the Lord of Dale, nearly two hundred years ago,” said the leader. He addressed Thranduil in Elvish. When Thranduil didn’t reply, he questioned Bard. “What brought you here?”

Bard quickly came up with a lie. “He hired me to help him find treasure in Framsburg. I didn’t even know he was an Elf, though he claimed he did business with their king.”

“King Thranduil does have a hunger for gold. I almost believe you. But there’s nothing in Framsburg, hardly even kindling.” The leader kept his gaze on Thranduil. “I’ll take out the arrow, since Lodric’s turned squeamish.”

“Go easy, Aduthir,” Lodric said.

When Bard tensed, one of the slavers laid the tip of his sword on his shoulder. “Leave Aduthir to his business.”

Aduthir came closer, going to one knee next to Thranduil. Bard could not tell whether he was closer to thirty than forty, for though his eyes were deeply lined and his mouth was grim, he did not otherwise seem old. He brushed some of the blond hair away from Thranduil’s forehead, then thoughtfully dragged his thumb down Thranduil’s cheek to turn him by the chin. Thranduil answered his look with disdain.

“Are you dying? I can slit your throat and spare you more pain. Should you live, I’m giving you to Bolg.”

Whatever Thranduil’s Elvish reply was, it made Aduthir’s face darken. Grasping the arrow, he began to slowly withdraw the head. Thranduil resisted, reaching for Aduthir’s throat. Aduthir grinned and leaned away just enough for Thranduil’s hold to slip, leaving a red handprint behind. When he finally tugged the arrow clean, he threw it on the grass.

“Get the Elf some water,” Aduthir said, rising to his feet. “Then bind him up. No one is to speak to the Elf, or even go near him, without my knowledge. Trust or mercy will get all of us killed. I’ll question the Lake-man.”

Aduthir pulled Bard up roughly by the arm, jerking his hands behind his back so he could tie his hands together with a coarse length of rope. He pushed Bard forward, hard enough to make him stumble.

“We’re going up the hill. I have something to show you,” Aduthir said.

When Bard twisted his head to see how Thranduil was faring, Aduthir cuffed him on the ear. The sudden turn in Bard’s fortunes was overwhelming; whatever purpose Thranduil had for Bard would not be simple, but he had a sense of fairness. Now Thranduil was on the brink of death, and Bard’s children at risk of being trapped in Mirkwood forever. Bard did not spare a thought for what the Orcs would do to him. Aduthir, a Gondorian judging by the sound of his name, would not make escape easy. Yet Bard had always done what must be done, and he would not be discouraged by bound hands and the mercenary nature of his captors.

A dead man was at the crest of the wooded hill, with one of Bard’s arrows through his windpipe. “It was a lucky shot to have made in the dark. His end was quick. You’ve never killed someone before, have you? It shows in your face,” Aduthir said. There was just enough light left to see that the body’s eyes were still staring upward, and his right hand curled around the shaft. Aduthir unsheathed his sword, and for one terrible moment Bard thought he might kill him, before Aduthir thrust his sword in the ground and took his scabbard in hand, wrapping his belt around his wrist. “I don’t believe that torture ever yields useful information, so I’ll spare you that. But you should fear me, and you killed one of my men.”

The first strike was across Bard’s neck, making him stumble. The next was to his arm, followed by another hard enough to send him to his knees. Bard grit his teeth against the pain but didn’t make a sound, even when Aduthir began to lay into his back and bound arms, leaving him with his face in the dirt. He knew it could have been so much worse, even as Aduthir started to breathe heavier from the exertion. A kick to his already sore hip finally made him gasp, the pain going all the way down to his knee.

“That should be enough.” Aduthir helped Bard into a standing position by grabbing his shirt. He fitted his scabbard back on his belt and sheathed his sword. There was nothing evil in his manner, nor violent. Aduthir was the dangerous sort of person who cared only for his own gain, and seemed to have no other pleasures.

“What makes you so important to the Elf he’d risk death and the indignity of being captured to save you? Had he let you die, I don’t think we could have withstood him. I know enough to recognize when someone is more than a common Silvan Elf.”

“I am nothing to him,” Bard replied. “I’m little better than a porter.”

“Is he fleeing from Mirkwood? Or has he come to spy on Bolg?”

“As I’ve already told you, I didn’t even know he was an Elf. Do I look mad enough to follow one?”

“You don’t look greedy enough to risk a journey to the edge of an Orc stronghold. No, I suspect something far more unseemly is at work between you.”

Bard did not like Aduthir’s implications. Did he think that Thranduil had coerced him? Thranduil kept his secrets, but he had never lied to him, and Bard had come to believe that Thranduil had had no part in his children’s abduction. And without Mirkwood’s corruption acting upon his mind, Thranduil had shown a well-hidden good nature.

“If you are truly nothing to each other,” said Aduthir, narrowing his eyes, “then you should stop lying to protect him. King Thranduil is little known outside of the North, but I have heard he’s very tall, with silver-gold hair, and had been burned by a serpent at the gates of Gundabad. There are few better prizes in Middle-earth, and compared to him, your life is worthless. I would free you, and give you a great cache of gold for your trouble.”

“I may have no loyalty to the Elf, but I have no trust in you. You must have come from Gondor, since you speak Elvish so readily. What sort of man would wander so far north but a deserter afraid to face his own kin? I would believe Bolg before I believed you. He, at least, is true to his race.”

Aduthir smiled ruefully. “You will shortly get to test Bolg’s honesty. As for me, I am a coward, but not a deserter. I led a company once, and commanded them to escape while I held off a band of Orcs. I had wanted to buy their lives with my own, but I was taken instead. Do you know what happens to the mind after weeks of torture, without hope of rescue? When there is not even any hope of death? There are countless ways to torment a man, and pain is only one. I knew such despair I could not even remember a time when I had ever known peace. At the last, I was delivered by a great eye, who whispered to me that I could once again see the sun and know my own kind if I did his bidding. Others may not have bargained away their souls so readily, but there was no heroic death to dream of in resistance, only thousands of disgraces, and a loneliness I could not bear. I am resigned to my poor purpose in this world.” He rubbed some of the drying blood off his neck, then looked down at his reddened palm with something like sadness. “And though I think that I have chosen my death today, I will serve my lord until the end. Now come, let’s see how your master fares.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least that cliffhanger wasn’t as bad as the last one!
> 
> And yes, in case you’re wondering, the bandits were reduced because I went a little further than I’d originally planned in the injuries. Edited previous chapter so Aragorn can still count.
> 
> My wonderful wife, [Nisie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws), has drawn [Aduthir](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/113712486732/for-sathinfection-a-quick-painting-of-aduthir) on her tumblr, if you're interested in seeing what he looks like. I promise he won't be in the story longer than he needs to be, but I'm rather fond of him. 
> 
> For anyone interested in the mechanics of Thranduil’s injuries, the arrow in his shoulder damaged both the subclavian artery and the vein, which provides circulation to the arm (and also feed into the brain through the vertebral artery, which branches off the subclavian). For a human in that time period, it’s definitely a fatal wound. The rapid loss of blood led to hemorrhagic shock, meaning there’s not enough blood to support all his bodily functions, so everything that can be shut down is shutting down, and the rest is making do. As for the vascular surgery, I based the treatment off a fifteenth century English translation of Guy de Chauliac’s _Chirurgia Magna_. This particular version had been used extensively for battlefield medicine, and described several treatments for severed veins and arteries.
> 
> During both the Middle Ages and the 19th century, there weren’t many options for treating hemorrhagic shock other than to give people lots of liquids. However, Guy de Chauliac recommends putting someone in a dark room, covering their eyes, and telling the person that they’re just fine, the bleeding’s over. In a surgical manual from the American Civil War, the advice for a gunshot victim is to make sure he’s well-comforted, because the shock is just as deadly as the bullet (not quite true). In other words, prior to blood transfusions, trained doctors advocated cuddling. 
> 
> The wound in Thranduil’s abdomen is even more definitely fatal, since it could have hit several blood-filled organs. Even if it didn’t, there’s the stomach and intestines, which lead to sepsis when pierced. Pre-antibiotics, it would have been impossible to treat the subsequent infection, even if the person didn’t bleed to death. Fortunately, Elves are immune to disease. Sorry to worry you, Bard!
> 
> Chapter title is from Yeats's "Valley of the Black Pig." Opening pig scene was very inspired by Thomas Hardy's _Jude the Obscure_. Thanks go out for medical consults to [Angua](angualupin.tumblr.com) and [Arostine](arostine.tumblr.com).


	6. that passed away, so may this

The slavers had swiftly made camp, setting up a fire just as the last light of the sun faded. They’d piled on plenty of wood, and the blaze was high enough to warm against the night’s chill. Lodric was still by Thranduil, who’d been stripped of his tunic and bandaged. Judging by the bruise on Lodric’s jaw and the scratches on his cheek, his patient was beginning to rally. Thranduil’s hands had already been bound in front of him.

“He doesn’t know where he is, though he wouldn’t like me much even if he did,” Lodric said. “But he may pull through. They’re an incredible people, the Elves.”

“I thought he would survive,” Aduthir replied. “Fetch a new shirt for the Lake-man, and a good coat; he reeks of blood.”

“Generous, for a brigand. Do you treat everyone so well?” Bard asked.

“When it suits me. Spread your legs.”

Bard raised his eyebrows, but obeyed. Aduthir patted Bard down, finding the knife he kept by his thigh, and the second one hidden in his coat.

“I expected more,” said Aduthir.

“Give me another and I’ll hide it better.”

“Between my ribs, I assume?” To Bard’s disbelief, Aduthir was untying his wrists. “I’m leaving the Elf’s care to you. If you try anything, even speaking Dalish instead of Westron, I won’t hesitate to have you dragged behind a horse all the way to Gundabad.”

“Are you that afraid of one Elf?”

“Yes. As you should be.”

Lodric reappeared with a roughspun tunic and a heavy, wool-lined coat. “If you’re thinking of turning your nose up at stolen goods,” Lodric said, handing over the clothing, “know that these are mine. The coat’s a bit too long for me, but you’ve got the height for it.” 

“Thank you.” Bard’s arms ached when he took off his coat, and his back hurt even worse when he lifted his shirt over his head. Everyone could see the bruises from his beating, which he supposed was for the best. The man Bard had killed had not been a good one, but it did little for his conscience. He scrubbed himself clean as best he could with his ruined shirt before putting on the new one. The coat had a good weight to it, though it was clearly old.

“I’ll be nearby, if he takes a turn for the worse. He’s been speaking nothing but Elvish since you left,” Lodric added, before leaving to join the others by the fire. Aduthir stayed closer, keeping well within hearing range as he lit a pipe, seemingly content with observing them.

His confidence that Bard would not escape was galling, though only a fool would have tried anything with so many eyes upon him, and Thranduil’s strength was exhausted. The slavers had done their best to make a sickbed, arranging some of their packs to keep Thranduil in a sitting position. There were some bloodied rags on the ground next to him, but it was all a far from what could not have been more than twenty minutes ago. Thranduil looked up at Bard from beneath heavy lashes as he approached.

“Do you still know me?” Bard said, not wanting Lodric’s treatment. Receiving no answer, Bard settled on tending to Thranduil before he came back to his senses. He used a water skin to wet the unused corner of a rag and used it to wash the blood from Thranduil’s hair. Bard had learned how to be gentle from his daughters, and Thranduil tolerated the touch. Perhaps there was nothing strange in it to Thranduil, who was certainly waited upon in his own kingdom, but Bard was not used to playing the servant. He was aware of the curious eyes of the other men, wondering what their judgment was. Bard wiped the cloth over Thranduil’s shoulders and drew it across his chest, taking care of the last of the blood. Shifting his gaze to the night sky, Thranduil began speaking softly in Elvish to someone who wasn’t there.

“What’s he saying?” Bard asked.

“He’s addressing his father,” Aduthir replied, listening intently. “His accent is not easy for me to understand, but he’s talking about a dragon, and shame. He wants to see his wife, who’s being hidden from him.”

Thranduil’s tone grew more distressed as his words came faster, his shoulders straining as he struggled against the rope binding his hands together. Bard had not thought he would ever witness fear revealed so openly on Thranduil’s face, and the sight disturbed him; it was not something Bard, or anyone else, was meant to know. Worried that Thranduil would rip his stitches, Bard did his best to gently hold him down while he writhed and raved.

“This is all in the past!” Bard cupped his hand under the line of Thranduil’s jaw. “Look at me. Whether you see me or Girion, you see a mortal. I couldn’t have been there when your wife died, but I’m here now.”

Thranduil felt red-hot as he turned towards Bard, who jerked his hand back as the scar flared over Thranduil’s cheek. Except now it traveled down his neck and ravaged his shoulder, leaving blistered and ruined skin behind it. The burn even spread past the bandages on his chest, exposing his ribs and turning his left side into one agonizing wound. Over by the fire, the men had risen to their feet, weapons in hand; Aduthir alone looked unsurprised.

“Bard?” Thranduil asked, focusing on Bard’s face with effort. As suddenly as they had emerged, the burns dissolved back into his flesh. Thranduil briefly took in his surroundings with no sign of comprehension, though he no longer seemed tormented by visions of what wasn’t there. His breathing came evenly and when his eyelids fluttered closed, it was in sleep. Bard didn’t know how Thranduil had kept himself from swooning for so long, but at last he was at rest.

Much of the color had drained from Thranduil’s lips. “He needs a blanket,” Bard said to Aduthir.

“They don’t feel the cold as we do,” Aduthir replied, bringing Bard a blanket nonetheless, “among many other things.”

“There’s no need to be obscure with a captive audience.” Bard wrapped the blanket around Thranduil’s shoulders, wishing he could do more. Only time could do anything for Thranduil now.

“You are that. Do you think someone who lives forever would react with the same feeling as someone of thirty? Their bodies are more closely tied to their souls than ours – it is why they’re immortal, and how your master survived what should have killed him. That burn you saw is a three thousand year old memory, marked inside him since before your people were anything but scattered tribes.”

Aduthir had tried to turn Bard by reminding him of the difference in their years, but the truth of Thranduil’s burn was so much sadder than he’d thought. It had been better to think that Thranduil had concealed an ugly scar than to know he was bearing such an old pain. Bard could not compete with an Elf for grandeur of feeling, but he had known the same loss as Thranduil, and his wife’s passing still lingered heavily upon him. The span between three thousand years and ten was not so great as it seemed, for people did not cease to love after death.

“You know much of the Elves, even for a Southerner,” said Bard.

“They were my favorite subject, when I was a child. I had once hoped to meet them more than anything. Of course, I had never seen one before today.”

“Odd then, that you seem to avoid looking at his face.”

“It is a consequence of what I serve. He is not easy for me to look at,” Aduthir replied.

That wasn’t a problem for the other men, who gawked at Thranduil’s every move, though they had lost a fraction of their interest since Thranduil had lost consciousness. And as for Aduthir’s talk of his master, the Orcs had clearly deranged his mind. 

“You should eat something, Bard. We’ll be rising early tomorrow, and not stopping until well after dark.”

In the moonlight, Mt. Gundabad appeared on the horizon as a hulking shadow, rising between the Grey and Misty Mountains. They could be no more than three or four days away from the stronghold, even at a slow pace. No more than three of the slavers appeared to be archers; the rest were swordsmen, and a few carried spears as well. Bard could not see where his bow was being kept, and Aduthir had taken Thranduil’s swords, keeping them in his own sword belt. He hoped that the morning would somehow bring good news.

* * *

The slavers’ willingness to allow Bard to move freely ended when they bedded down for the night, and Bard had to get what little sleep he could with his hands and feet bound. He was already awake when Lodric came to get him up.

“You’re looking more poorly than the Elf,” Lodric said, untying the knots with some difficulty. “I’d always thought they would be more kind and gracious, though we didn’t exactly invite him to dinner.”

Thranduil was on his feet, though he was leaning back against one of the horses. Even from across the camp, Bard could see that Thranduil’s complexion remained ashen. Aduthir was only a few yards away, adjusting the girth of his saddle.

“You would find him very generous, if you freed him,” replied Bard, rubbing some of the soreness out of his wrists. 

“I already saved his life. Isn’t that enough for their celebrated hospitality?”

“I suppose he left his magic rings in the shirt you had to cut off of him.”

Lodric grinned and tapped his forehead. “What a fool I was.”

How Lodric could treat Bard with so much friendliness frustrated him. The mechanics of their business meant their band must rarely have only two people with them – families and neighbors chained together were more likely, and they were more easily ignored. Yet Lodric spoke to Bard as if he were not a prisoner to be sold. Perhaps it was like being kind to an animal before slaughtering it.

Bard did not know how Thranduil was playing their roles today, whether he was a king or whatever passed for common among the Elves. And if Thranduil held their captivity against Bard, he could not fault him for it. When he approached, Thranduil’s eyes flickered over him briefly. Sick as he was, his look had lost none of its sharpness.

“I’m glad to see that they have not treated you too harshly,” Thranduil said. “That is to their credit, for they are planning to make us ride today, and I do not think you could do it with your hands tied.”

Hearing Thranduil sound like himself again restored Bard’s spirits. “Are you well enough?”

“If I cared for my comfort, I would not be standing.” He turned to Aduthir. “You, Man of Gondor. Which noble house are you disgracing? Your Sindarin is so corrupted you must have been mangling it since birth.”

“Your house, Oropherion,” replied Aduthir. “Or I would, if you were of noble stock yourself.”

Thranduil seemed pleased by the insult. “And what would the descendant of sunken Westernesse know of rule by consent? No, you’d rather swear fealty to the first thing to drop from the right pair of legs whilst thinking yourselves equal to the Valar. You cannot insult me, Gondorian, but I can humiliate you.”

“Dignity is too much of an expense for me. It is a weakness of your race and station to prize it so highly.”

“You desire it.”

Aduthir tangled his fingers in his horse’s mane before raising himself into the saddle. “You’ve learnt little of Men in your forest. Do you need aid with getting on your horse?”

Bard held the reins unasked, knowing that Thranduil would refuse any help. He was able to grab the saddle horn with his bound hands and pull himself up with effort, his mouth tense with pain. Thranduil soon straightened his back and had the horse under control.

“I’ve only seen a Rider of Rohan do that before, on a bet, and he didn’t even have any holes in him,” Lodric said. “I fear our Elf-lord might escape us.”

“I have no need. You’re going in my direction.”

Decamping was done efficiently, and even through all the bustle, Bard and Thranduil never left someone’s watch, the bowmen’s in particular. Bard’s horse was not nearly as biddable as Lightstep, and would have trotted in the wrong direction if the men hadn’t been keeping them surrounded. Thranduil acted as if were traveling with an armed guard rather than as a hostage, diminishing none of the slavers’ fascination with him.

Bard’s heart beat faster when he saw his longbow and quiver fastened to one of the pack horses. Given the opportunity for surprise, he was certain he could take out the archers before they could fire a shot. Whether he would get that opening or not would depend on how quickly Thranduil healed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally - no cliffhanger ending! 
> 
> A few notes for this one. Oropher, Thranduil's father, was chosen by the Wood Elves to be their king for reasons that Tolkien never really goes into, but I'm assuming had something to do with being a bourgeois Sindarin Elf, rather than a lowly Silvan Elf. 
> 
> Westernesse refers to the Isle of Númenor, home of the fanciest Men who thought they were so hot that they could go worship Morgoth and live forever, I guess. The people who didn't make bad decisions ended up founding Gondor. A Gondorian nobleman would have grown up speaking Sindarin along with Westron, and the accent/dialect would be different enough for it to be noticeable. 
> 
> The theory that Thranduil's rad burn scarring is the product of a traumatized soul has been roaming around the internet long enough that it's even crept into the IMDB page, so I claim no credit for it. Elves are just that cool. 
> 
> Aduthir's dead wife math was rounding up. 
> 
> If anyone wanted a break from the Yeats poems, this chapter title comes from the Anglo-Saxon poem "Deor." Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!


	7. the body after the banqueting

“What do you hunt with this, oliphaunts?” Lodric asked, struggling to draw Bard’s bow. He nearly pulled the string all the way back before his fingers slipped and the release smacked against his bracer. “ _Eálá_! That would’ve taken my skin off. You’re passing strong, Bard.”

They had been travelling for roughly four hours, and the men were starting to grow bored. Some of the Breelanders had taken to singing, and the Rohirrim would respond in their own language, except louder. It was amicable enough.

“Would you know an oliphaunt, if you saw one?” Bard replied. “We are quite far from Harad.”

“Aduthir would. He’s fought them.”

“I have not,” Aduthir replied. “It’s better to scare them, or kill their masters. An oliphaunt’s skin is thick as a man’s arm, and no arrow can penetrate it. Lodric, let me see that bow.”

With ease, Lodric made his horse change step until he was close enough to Aduthir to hand him the longbow. Rotating in the saddle, Aduthir pulled the string back until his arm started to shake, finally extending to full draw with a frustrated yank.

“It helps if you have some training,” said Bard.

“Or come from the line of Girion.” Aduthir gave the bow back to Lodric.  

“I went thirty-five years in Laketown without anyone remarking upon my ancestry, but as soon as I leave, I cannot take one step without a comparison to Girion, even from strangers.”

“I would never have confused the two of you while in my right mind,” Thranduil said, breaking his uncharacteristic silence of the past few hours, “if that sets you at ease. For one, Girion had a full beard.”

Driven to be the better of a comparison he did not want, Bard asked, “Is that in my favor or no?”

“Girion has been dead for nearly two centuries; you need not compete with him so fiercely.”

“Two hundred years must feel like very little to an Elf.”   

Thranduil shook his head. “Time cannot diminish our memories. Two hundred years is as long as I wish it to be, and yet passes too slowly, and too fast. It is not something I could explain to the short-lived.”

His words bred much unease in Bard, for he did not like being reminded of mortality, no matter how lightly. And if Thranduil could dwell so long in memory, whatever doom he saw in Bard had likely been Girion’s first. Girion’s lot had been dragonfire and death, though there had been glory too, and Bard wanted only peace. He had no desire for immortal fame and its bitter price.

But Aduthir reacted differently to Thranduil’s words. There was an unspeakable hunger in Aduthir’s face as he looked at Thranduil, and at last Bard saw something of what had been twisted inside him, an admiration turned to hatred. No common evil could have bent a man so. Aduthir soon returned to his usual weary expression, and Thranduil gave no indication he had seen any change.

It began to snow, and Bard was glad of Lodric’s lent coat when the wind picked up and blew his collar up against his neck. The sky had gone gray and featureless, while the mountains turned the color of silt. With the sun’s light so dimmed, Bard could hardly tell how long they had been riding. Thranduil was starting to slump in the saddle, though he made no complaint.

“Did you find your master in Harad,” Thranduil asked, “or were you exiled first?”

There was no way Thranduil could have heard what Aduthir had said privately to Bard, but Elves were more perceptive than Men. Bard had learned little of what menaced the South, beyond Gondor’s ongoing war with the remnants of Sauron’s forces.

“I cannot be exiled if my family thinks me dead,” said Aduthir. “I wonder if your son knows you were skulking abroad, cloaked in the shrinking enchantments of the Sindar. Outside of your people, I have heard only of Sauron having such a gift for illusion.”

“A Gondorian would know much of Sauron, and little of the Sindar. Comparing our protective art to his workings is the mistake of someone long removed from kindness and good things. Do you think me so enfeebled I cannot see who has rule of your soul? The darkness that diseases you is writ in your every aspect, as foul as any Orc’s. If your men could see what you truly serve, rather than the petty reward of coin, they would hang you gladly.”

Aduthir breathed in raggedly, and his hands briefly trembled. He still did not look at Thranduil. “You are not without the same darkness, though it hides better in you.”

Bard remembered Tauriel’s warning about Thranduil’s affliction, and thought of how small the fair part of Mirkwood had become. What form had it taken with Thranduil, beyond the mistrust of those who loved him? Was it his rumored lust for gems? That poison Bard understood too well, living under the rule of the Master and in sight of the tainted wealth of the Lonely Mountain. Thranduil nudged his horse alongside Aduthir’s, leaning in to bring his greater height to advantage.

Pitching his words to carry, though they were close enough Aduthir could likely feel his breath, Thranduil said, “Evil preys on strength and weakness alike. The difference lies in that the weak are turned, and the strong consumed.”

Aduthir’s reaction was instant, as he wrapped his fingers around Thranduil’s throat and squeezed. “I still hold power here,” he snarled. 

His horse was beginning to startle, confounding Bard’s attempt to dismount. While it turned itself stubbornly in the other direction, he heard Thranduil speak a few words in Elvish before the sound of a fist and a horse’s frightened whinny. Bard finally got his feet on the ground and would have gone to Thranduil’s aid if Lodric and another man hadn’t held him back, pinning his arms. He still got in a good kick before Lodric forced him to his knees.  Thranduil was lying on his back, laughing while Aduthir stood over him with a scratched knuckle from striking Thranduil across the mouth. The Rohirrim were struggling to calm the horses, and in all the languages being spoken there was dismay.

“What brought you here?” Aduthir said, fisting his hand in Thranduil’s hair and yanking him upwards. Thranduil ran his tongue over his bloodied teeth and spit in Aduthir’s face. After hastily scrubbing off the blood, Aduthir pressed his thumb against Thranduil’s wounded shoulder until he cried out.

“Leave that to Bolg,” said one of the Breelanders, stepping up to Aduthir. “We are not torturers. This serves no purpose but your own.”

“And what do you know of that?” Aduthir hissed.

“Your leader likes the look of me,” Thranduil said, keeping his gaze on Aduthir while a red stain spread over the bandage around his shoulder.

Eyes widening as if he’d been hit, Aduthir released Thranduil and turned towards his men. “You think you can find some decency because you’ve met one of the Fair Folk? A band of killers, traitors, and thieves, who’ve traded men, women, and children to our worst enemy?” He pointed to the Breelander who’d rebuked him. “You were a highwayman before you were driven north to me. And Lodric, my loyal fratricide, who murdered his own brother for the horse he rides. None of you are above the lowest judgment.”

Lodric tightened his grip on Bard, muttering low that it had not been so simple.

“I will hear no more talk of pity,” Aduthir said. “We are camping at the old farmhouse tonight; we should arrive as the sun sets. I will deal with the Elf there in whatever fashion I decide. All of you would do best to remember yourselves.”

The men were quiet as they waited to leave again. Since Thranduil was too freshly injured to raise himself into the saddle, Aduthir ordered the Breelander to help him. When Thranduil thanked him his help, he flushed with embarrassment and called him ‘my lord.’

“Your Elf goaded Aduthir into such a fit as I’ve never before seen,” Lodric said, nervously patting his horse’s neck. “It is not like him to speak ill of us, true or no.”  

* * *

Snow continued to settle its silence over the grassland, though it was light enough that the horses’ hooves exposed patches of green wherever they stepped. Bard had learned to resent winter its beauties, for his wife had sickened in autumn, and passed when the frost had made the ground too hard for burial. Only Tilda’s crying for food, freshly weaned from the wet nurse and a little stranger in a house given over to mourning, could rouse Bard from his bed, and the snow’s cleanness had seemed a reproach of the disorder inside.

The fog-thick air made it difficult to see more than a few hundred yards ahead, and there was no sign of the farm until they began to come across the skeletons of cattle. They could not have been dead for too long, for there were some ragged scraps of hide clinging still to their ribs. Some of them bore the marks of butchery, their bones hastily disjointed, but most seemed to have been slaughtered without purpose.

“Orcish work,” Lodric whispered. “They like to practice their archery on livestock, and waste much of what they kill.”

Disquiet lay thick upon the slavers without any of them having to speak of it. Thranduil saved all of his rancor for Aduthir and treated the others with tolerance, even engaging one of the Rohirrim in a conversation about horses until Aduthir put a stop to it. Bard understood better why Elves and Men no longer mixed as they once did, for Thranduil’s manner and bearing were so alien, and yet enthralling, that one felt debased in comparison. He marveled at how easily he had treated Thranduil when he had affected a Man’s nature, though nothing had truly changed about him but his appearance; perhaps it was because as Aduthir said, that Elvish spirits were not separate from their bodies, and Bard feared how readily someone could pledge himself to such a fierce animation. Bard had thought he had done it out of desperation, though now he could see it had been more complicated.

As for the accusation that had driven Aduthir to sudden violence, Bard considered the meaning only with discomfort. Laketown had few secrets, and if a man or woman went long unmarried there were few doubts as to the reason, but as long as they conducted themselves without scandal it was hardly worth gossiping about. Bard had never leaned in that way, though he had wed so early he supposed he could not be entirely certain. That Elves knew of such contrary biddings seemed strange in a people as carefully designed as they, and perhaps viewed them with greater condemnation. Bard did not lie to himself about finding Thranduil pleasing to look upon, even above others of his kind. Now that he mulled over it, some of what Thranduil had said to Bard hinted of an answering interest, if Bard thought him capable of such a thing. Regardless, there was little gain in thinking of it further while they were being held captive.

The remains of cattle soon gave way to ruined fields, where desiccated stalks of wheat and barley rose out of the snow, and the few trees were blackened by ash. Many had been felled and stripped of their branches. Only one tree stood untouched, two empty nooses dangling from its thickest limb. A woman’s scarf was still hanging from the rope, and the ground below swelled.

“This is an evil place for a camp,” Thranduil said, then added in Dalish that only Bard could understand, “but it is suited to an end.”

“Fitting, is it not?” replied Aduthir. “Though none of this death was our doing. The barn will keep the chill off the horses. It was unwise to settle so close to Gundabad, no matter what the family was fleeing. They must have thought the mountain abandoned.”

“I did not think Bolg’s people were so numerous as to leave their hiding place with any force,” Bard said.

“You can see the lie in that,” Aduthir answered.

Thranduil glanced dismissively at Gundabad. “Orcs are no match for a disciplined army, unless they breed in numbers not seen since the Second Age. Their chieftains have no gift for command but that which is forced upon them.”

Though Aduthir’s expression did not change, Lodric had a look of dread. Aduthir set his men to making the barn comfortable before they lost the sunlight, but hung back after sending off the horses.

“Now, my lord Elvenking,” Aduthir said, resting one hand on the swords he had taken from Thranduil, “I will have my answers from you before you drive my men to mutiny. Lodric, you’ll help me take them into the farmhouse.”

Lodric hesitated, his eyes drifting between the three of them as if someone would free him of his indecision, before binding Bard’s wrists behind his back again. “I have not done much good in my life,” he said, as he made the knots fast, “but this sits worse with me than little else.”

“You could do the right thing.”

“Aye, if I thought it would matter at all, or change my fate.”

Bard’s boots crunched through the snow as they were marched inside. When his vision adjusted to the darkness, Bard could see that most of the furniture had been taken out for kindling, although what would not burn had been left undisturbed.

“Lodric, keep your sword raised at the Elf, and be ready to slit his throat if he moves. Even he couldn’t live through that.”

Thranduil was pushed back against the wall by swordspoint, as Aduthir grabbed Bard roughly and pressed a dagger beneath his ribs, hard enough to hurt.

“One of you will break before this blade slips into your lungs, and I think it will be you, Lake-man. I’ve divined what connects you and the king, ever since I heard you called Girion. What linked Mirkwood and Laketown so closely in years past was not simply trade, but I cannot say if it were mere friendship or something more sordid. I like to think it was not, though by all accounts Girion was prideful enough to consider himself worthy. Thranduil finds no value in you, Bard, outside of a memory of someone greater. Tell me why he brought you to the foothills of Gundabad, and I will spare you the doom I see falling over me and my men.”

The dagger was bruising his skin. Bard did not believe Aduthir was wrong; in fact, it was a relief to hear the words spoken aloud, instead of coming only from his conscience. But what did it matter if Thranduil thought only of Girion, if Bard was able to be reunited with his children? It was petty arrogance to desire anything else.

“Why do you persist in trying to hold me,” Thranduil asked, his voice patient, “when you know you cannot? You are out of time, _adan_.”

“There will be no tales of Aduthir, for I am childless and yoked to what I most hate. What hope is there but to be a dropped stitch in a tapestry, or a blot upon the page? You must remember me, even if it is with contempt.”

“I will not remember you any more than I would a bad harvest. Something troublesome, but meriting not a second thought in my years.”

Bard was thrown to the side as Aduthir slammed Thranduil against the wall, cursing him in Elvish. Lodric was on Bard in an instant, wrestling him to the ground and pinning him to the floorboards when Bard bit at his arm. Bard saw how Aduthir had misjudged when Thranduil’s hands, still tied in front of him, brushed against the hilt of his sword, and the sheath slid off as if it were charmed. He twisted the sword in his grip and the blade sliced at the inner join of Aduthir’s thigh. Aduthir barely had time to stumble backwards before Thranduil flipped the blade upwards and drove it under his ribs. Lodric raised his hands in surrender as Aduthir bled out on the floor, staring blindly ahead as he could not even gather the breath to speak.

“You would be dead if not for me,” Lodric said. “Please.”

Thranduil ignored him, focusing on cutting his bonds. “Bard, you should get out of the way.”

“Could you not show him mercy?” Bard asked.

“Please,” Lodric repeated.

After shaking off the severed ropes, Thranduil had a solid hold on his sword. Bard moved out from under Lodric just as Thranduil beheaded him with one trained cut.

“It is better to die quickly,” Thranduil said, flicking some of the blood off his sword before using it to free Bard, “then like that one.” He tilted his head back towards Aduthir, who was still alive. “He has a minute or two left at most, but if it would be a relief to you, I can finish it now.”

Bard nodded, too shocked to do more than sit up and try to work feeling back into his hands, for Lodric’s knots had been too tight. Thranduil stood over Aduthir, studying his face before thrusting the blade into his heart. There was too much death, and Bard knew it was only the start.

“I will fetch your bow, and you will stay here and take care of anyone who escapes me. We will speak of this later, when there is time, for there is just enough light left for you to see by.” With a slight roll of his neck, Thranduil’s appearance changed again, taking on the semblance of Aduthir. His lip curled in distaste. “He gave me no insult but when he compared Sindarin magic to Sauron’s. I suppose I will remember him a little for that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Bard, if only you knew how famous you’ll become. Also, Thranduil likes you better than Girion already. 
> 
> As for the Sindar being particularly good at enchantment, there's a tiny bit of canon evidence towards it but it's mostly me thinking it'd be neat. I mean technically if Thranduil wanted to show off his Tolkien-endorsed special skills he'd have to pull out a lute and toss out some sweet ballads, but this isn't that kind of story. (for now?)
> 
>  _Eálá_ is the Anglo-Saxon word for 'alas.' I would've gone for Anglo-Saxon 'ouch,' but ' _eow_!' doesn't quite have that Rohirric ring to it. 
> 
> _Adan_ is Sindarin for “mortal man.” Also, what Thranduil said in Elvish that tipped Aduthir over the edge the first time was simply that he called him “Elf-friend.”  
>   
>  Chapter title comes from the Seamus Heaney translation of _Beowulf_ :
> 
> But death is not easily  
> escaped from by anyone:  
> all of us with souls, earth-dwellers  
> and children of men, must make our way  
> to a destination already ordained  
> where the body, after the banqueting,  
> sleeps on its deathbed. (1001-1007)
> 
>   
> also aduthir's death was totally inspired by mommy fortuna from _the last unicorn_ i'm so sorry


	8. in fortune, there is no abiding

Only three men had run fast enough to ever leave the barn. Bard’s bow would always be familiar to him, even if the target was not. Two had died cleanly, but wind or bad luck had turned the arrow for the third, and he did not fall until after Bard had loosed another shaft.

For Bard, fortune never seemed to merely shift; instead, its wheel either raised or broke him. He should be glad to be free, and he was. Yet his hands shook, and he wished the sun would set faster, so he would not have to see his work in the snow. Bard had never been one to linger in the market to see the Master’s justice, though others did. 

Thranduil found Bard resting his back against the far side of the farmhouse. Clad in a tunic and coat fine enough to have been stolen rather than worn, Thranduil’s features were now his own, though he still appeared as one of Bard’s race. Bard did not know whether that made him feel more at ease or less, after so many of the boundaries between them had begun to gray.

“I am sorry I did not help you more, my lord. I am proving myself a coward.”

“It is not cowardice to think on the dead,” Thranduil said. “I have seen that look before.”

“From Girion?”

Thranduil raised one eyebrow. “No. He did not often reflect on his doings.”

That was unexpected. His mother had spoken little of Girion, other than that he had given his life defending Dale. Bard had always supposed Girion to have been more like himself—why else would Thranduil have saved Bard, whom he’d only known for a few days, if not for their likeness?     

“Why did you risk your life for mine?” Bard asked.

“Because I could not achieve my purpose without you.”

Bard crossed his arms. “Which you will not tell me.”

There was a moment of rare hesitation before Thranduil spoke again. “My errand is not a happy one. We are going to Gundabad, but as I have proved, I rank your safety above my own. You must return alive, Bard. And do not worry of my own death, for it would release your children. Mirkwood has little direction without me.”

Relieved as he was that Thranduil’s fate would not be his children’s, he did not care for why Thranduil may have felt the need to tell him. When Bard had no ready response, Thranduil held one of his swords towards Bard, hilt-first.

“Would you like to kill me, now that you know?” Thranduil asked.

The offer was empty, for Thranduil could easily stop him. Belying Thranduil’s impassive tone, his expression had some of the fierceness Bard had seen at their first meeting, when Thranduil had demanded his pledge. Thranduil’s mood was inconstant, as if a better nature were fighting something suspicious and grasping. Yet Thranduil did not seem to be testing Bard; rather, he looked as if he wished Bard would take the sword.  

“If you desire your own destruction, I will have no part in it. “

“In all of our years on Middle-earth, only one Elf has ever done so, though that is not a story for tonight.” Sheathing his sword, Thranduil inclined his head towards the setting sun. “I will tell you more of Girion tomorrow, if you wish it. But first, we must distance ourselves from this place.”

Although Thranduil had already sorted through the supplies and loaded up a pack horse with winter gear while Bard had been gathering his thoughts, he insisted that they remove all the tack from the other horses before leaving. The animals were nervous, and Bard had no skill with them. With the stars obscured by clouds, Bard could barely see his hands in front of him by the time they had finished.

“I hope it is true that your kind can see well at night, for I cannot,” Bard said.

“I will not let you go astray.”

Thranduil had taken Lodric’s horse for his own, and left Bard with a much more agreeable mount than the last. The darkness of the night seeped into Bard’s thoughts. He remembered how it had felt to look at a man and judge where he would let the arrow fly, and how Lodric had begged for his life. But even those memories were not as terrible as his doubt that he would live to ever see his children again.

Even as the clouds parted and the stars emerged, with greater brightness and number than on the Long Lake, Bard could not lift his thoughts from gloom. When Thranduil looked back, despite the shadows obscuring him, his untempered wonder at being under the stars again was plain. Bard nearly smiled before Thranduil turned away.

Softly, Thranduil sang to a familiar tune, one that Bard had heard first as a lullaby and then more sadly from other boatmen, as they cleared winter ice and pulled empty nets from the water. It was so unexpected, and the tone so clear, that at first he did not realize Thranduil was singing in Bard’s own tongue. The song spoke of Dale’s former days, when Dwarven gold streamed from Erebor and the valley was rich with food and game. There were verses Bard had never heard, about Dale’s tall towers and her gracious Lords, and friendship between Elves and Men. Bard felt as if he were there, walking down streets filled goods from every land, and nowhere was anyone hungry or poor. His spirits were cheered, as if Bard were not headed towards dreaded Gundabad, with four men’s deaths hanging over his head.

“I am not much of a singer by the standards of my people,” Thranduil said after he’d finished, “but it is ill to carry a heavy heart with you at night.”

“How did you know that song?”

“We taught it to you. I think it was Galion who wrote the tune, though the words were mostly by one of your minstrels.”

Bard had never thought the song had been anything but a lament. “Well, you certainly gave singing a good try,” Bard replied, making Thranduil laugh.

They did not travel for very long that night, stopping to make camp just in sight of the river Anduin, sheltered from the wind by a crumbling wall that was the last remains of a homestead. Thranduil had not shown any signs of weariness, but as soon as the tent was up and made fast against the cold, he crawled in and fell asleep without another word. Bard thought briefly that it was the first time he had ever seen Thranduil naturally at rest before giving in to exhaustion himself.

* * *

Bard came to with a rock digging in his back that hadn’t been there in the night.  The snow must have melted. When he emerged from the tent, Thranduil was sitting on the ground, resting his arm on one upraised knee as he stared into the distance.

“How far away would you place that marmot?” Thranduil asked.

“What marmot?”

Thranduil pointed at a furry brown spot next to a pile of rocks.

“At least three hundred and fifty yards away,” replied Bard.

“I suppose it is too far for breakfast.”

He tried to resist the challenge, then went for his bow and quiver. “I’ll have to gauge the wind first.”

The bemused expression on Thranduil’s face made Bard more determined.

“Laketown has an archery contest I have not won in twelve years,” Bard said, bending the bow and aiming for the midpoint between him and the marmot, “because I am no longer allowed to compete.”

The arrow landed to the left of his target, but it had traveled further than he’d expected. Bard knew he could hit the marmot; he’d made harder shots in the past, though not many, and not recently.

“Do Elves even eat marmot?” Bard asked.

“If Men give us the opportunity.”

Bard aimed far to the right of the marmot this time, raising the bow higher and spacing his feet well apart. The arrow embedded itself in a tussock of grass, close enough to startle the marmot into waddling a few feet away. Bard forced himself to relax, focusing only on his breathing. He drew back the bowstring, straining the muscles of his arm and shoulder. No one else could fully draw Bard’s bow, though many had tried. Bard released his fingers, and the arrow flew straight, riding a fortunate wind. His arrow pierced just beneath the marmot’s front leg, striking its heart.

“Are you now satisfied with my aim?” said Bard, smiling. “Or would you like me to bring down the sun to fry eagles’ eggs?”    

“Could you?” Thranduil rose to his feet and gave Bard a slight bow. “I never saw Girion’s arrows go so far.”

The victory did not sit as easily with Bard as he thought it would. Marmot flesh reminded him more of squirrel than anything else, which in turn put Bard in mind of winters when there was little else to eat. The taste was not bad in itself. Questions about Girion continued to press at Bard’s conscience, but the question he most wanted to ask—had there been more than friendship—was not one he could. Truly, there was no reason why Bard needed to know.

* * *

Despite the ease in his manner that morning, Thranduil was not forthcoming in his speech, even after they had ridden for some time. But when they came near enough to the Anduin to see the sun glinting off the water, Thranduil began to tell Bard more of Girion.

“While the right to all of Mirkwood is mine, there is little I hold for myself only. A ruler should give freely to his people, and generosity should grow with rank. There is only one thing in the forest I claim for my own, and that is the white hart. I hunted many times with Girion. He particularly enjoyed chasing boar, and would ever rush to be the first to spear one brought to bay. Never did we see a white hart until the year the dragon came.

“I had not seen his like in centuries. When Girion raised his bow, I reminded him that the hart was not his to hunt. He had laughed and told me he would leave me the rack, and fix the pelt to my throne. Girion had never known when to restrain his hand, and when he loosed the arrow, it struck true. I think now that Girion was not truly himself that day, though I had no such suspicion back then. I commanded my guards to strip him naked and drive him from the wood, and declared that his aim would fail when it was most needed.”

Bard suppressed his sudden anger; whether it was with Girion or Thranduil, he was not sure. “That was why he could only loosen the dragon’s scale.”

“Defeating Smaug would have given him a great name, but dragons do not die before their time. Regardless of my words, Girion had not the character of a dragonslayer. Dragons are driven by an evil will, and Men far greater than Girion have fallen to them.”

After all of Bard’s fears that Thranduil saw him as an expedient sequel to Girion, he found that he had only to gain by comparison to his ancestor, and not the other way around. Bard wanted nothing on another man’s merits, whether it be burden or reward.

“I feel like I am rid of a ghost,” he said.  

“To think I had withheld this from you, to spare your family pride. You are very unlike most of the Men I have known. And before you ask, yes, that is in your favor.”   

Having his thoughts so easily predicted was vexing enough, but that was one Bard especially wished would go unrevealed. Framsburg was beginning to come into view; the town had been abandoned in the Second Age, when its people migrated to Rohan. Though it had fallen to utter ruin, there was still shelter to be found. The Anduin separated them from the town, and narrow as it was this far in the North, it would be too wide and deep for their horses to ford.

“How are we going to cross the river?” Bard asked.

“There is an old bridge by Framsburg which has proven itself too useful to destroy.”

“The Orcs use it, then.”

“Among others,” Thranduil replied. “But the town is empty now, I assure you. We will shelter there overnight, and get what rest we can before starting for Gundabad when the sun rises. Bolg’s goblins will not go out in daylight, and Orcs in small numbers are easily avoided.”

“Will you tell me why we are going there, now that we are so near?”

Thranduil seemed to be gritting his teeth, but at last he did not avoid the question. “I must see to my wife’s body. Though the battle at Gundabad was won, there was no time to pay respect to the dead before we had to fight again. She is buried in a shallow grave on the lee side of the mountain. I will not let her lie there untended any longer.”

“That is suicide,” Bard said.  

“It is merely dangerous. It falls to you to return to Mirkwood on your own, should I fail.”

Bard could not bring himself to think Thranduil selfish, or a fool. He remembered being forced to wrap his wife in a shroud and leave her to the lake, to be eaten by fish and other scavengers. Wood had been too scarce for building a pyre. For months afterward, Bard had trembled at every shape in the water, fearing that he would see his wife’s swollen face rising from the depths.

They did not speak further. When they entered Framsburg, Bard was touched by how much it looked like Dale. A dragon could do in a day what took time thousands of years. Most of the houses had thatched roofs and were open to the elements, but there were some which had been built with stone. There was something Dwarvish about them; they had probably been gifts. Bard had not thought relationships between the different peoples of Middle-earth were so poor until he saw the evidence of how close they once had been.

“This should do,” Thranduil said when they reached the smallest of the Dwarven buildings. “We can stable the horses next door.”

Night descended quickly on Framsburg. By Bard’s reckoning, it was the first day of winter. Bard went outside while Thranduil lingered to feed the horses; he supposed a king should not have had to do so much with the animals himself, but Bard’s ability as a groom was limited to dodging being bitten. He did not like horses any more than he had four days ago, though he had a little more respect.

Framsburg stretched out beneath the feeble moonlight. Though the town was a ruin, there was not the same evil feeling as there had been on the farm, or even in the rolling barrows beneath the Grey Mountains. Framsburg’s people had left on their own time and by their own accord, and Bard wished there were more places in Middle-earth so willfully abandoned.

“The long building on the central hill used to be the hall of Eorl, the first king of Rohan,” Thranduil said, coming to stand by Bard. “I was a guest of his once, and the feast lasted for three days. Tauriel, my captain, won the drinking contest quite handily, though the Men had protested that she was too delicate to join them.”

The picture of Tauriel surrounded by empty mugs of beer and humiliated Rohirrim made Bard smile. He wondered why Thranduil was still concealing himself behind a mortal face, even when there was no chance of them being seen. Bard suspected it was for his comfort. Thranduil had lived for years past Bard’s understanding, but he did not have to see it when they spoke together, like equals.

“Do you wish there was still friendship between Elves and Men?” Bard asked.

“Yes. We both learned much by it.” Thranduil shifted his weight, making Bard more aware of their difference in height. Bard was unused to needing to look up to meet anyone’s eyes. “I regret parting from Girion as I did. He was not beholden to me, nor was he intimidated, and for that I valued him.”

“You were fond.”

“But more fond of you. Take that how you will, for I have no need to speak of it again.”

Bard stood still. It would be stubborn blindness on Bard’s part to think Thranduil’s words were not permission; that he left moving further entirely to Bard was a mark of respect and sensitivity of how he had to defer to Thranduil in most else, little as Bard felt ready to know his own thoughts on the matter. But there was no more time to discuss sideways the attraction between them. Bard almost turned his back, to retreat into his familiar isolation from intimacy rather than to chance the daunting new.

He did not turn away. Instead, he stepped closer, resting his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, one finger brushing against the skin of his neck. Thranduil gently pulled Bard closer by the waist, slipping his hand underneath the heavy coat. Bard hesitated until he saw Thranduil’s faint smile, and he brought their lips together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next chapter is definitely going to earn the M rating. If you've been looking forward to it, great! If you haven't, there'll be a summary of any important revelations not related to sex. 
> 
> I totally indulged in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to Maedhros. And I completely failed to live up to my promise that Thranduil wouldn't sing, but at least there was no lute-playing. Also, Thranduil wasn't just copying Túrin with the naked woods chase - it was a pretty standard medieval punishment for someone who'd offended your honor. 
> 
> Now that Thranduil's finally acknowledged that Bard's a better bowman than Girion, Bard's gonna give up on murdering small mammals for bragging purposes. 
> 
> My wonderful wife [Nisie](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com) drew [Thranduil and Bard looking at each other with unresolved tension](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/116528707862/a-quick-sketch-of-bard-and-thranduil-for-my-wifey).
> 
> Chapter title is a bit of a mangled quote from Lancelot in _Le Morte Darthur_.


	9. clasped the lord and kissed him thrice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is essentially 2,000 words of sex. If that's what you've been hankering for, great! If not, you can skip this chapter without missing anything important.

Long as it had been for Bard, he still remembered to pace himself, to wait for Thranduil to part his lips before deepening the kiss. Bard already wanted so much more; his blood was pounding in his ears as if he were still a boy. Thranduil could likely feel Bard hardening against him, even through their heavy clothing. The wind grew stronger, its chill a fierce contrast to the heat of Thranduil’s mouth. Bard’s fingers had grown icy cold, but Thranduil’s skin was as warm as if it were a sunny noon. That, more than his height, the breadth of his shoulders, or any other feature of his sex, was the most unnerving to Bard. He struggled to put thoughts of their difference aside as they kissed, until Thranduil pulled him into the building they had chosen for their camp. The wind rattled against the door as soon as it was shut.  

Inside was furniture carved from metal and stone, sized for the Dwarves who would have used them. Anything small enough to have been carried was gone, likely looted. There were a few gilded tiles left on the floor, which had been stripped to bare earth. Thranduil looked over the room and nudged one leg of the broad dining table with his boot.

“This should hold us without breaking; nonetheless, I would almost prefer the soil,” Thranduil said with a sneer.

The implications of Thranduil’s words raced through Bard’s head. “I think the Dwarves would rather you were in the dirt as well.”

Thranduil laughed, so distant from Bard’s grim first impression of him. “That is but one of their many unfortunate turns of mind.” Unbuttoning his coat with regal composure, Thranduil asked, “Have you any experience with your own sex? I must assume you are not also in the habit of bringing Elves to bed.”

“Nor kings.”

“We have grown rare, in these latter days. There were ages when you could have served your choice of Elf or Man, though I do not think a crown would have sat unfairly on your own head.”

There was always an absolute assurance in Thranduil’s speech, as if he knew Bard’s future. Bard would have liked it little, if Thranduil were not already so strange in his ways, and so old.

“If you have any doubts, tell me,” Thranduil said. “My pride is unassailable, even if you were to decide now that your desire is not of the right kind.”

Bard replied by kissing him again, without the earlier gentleness. Thranduil responded in kind as Bard undid his belt and loosened the ties of his tunic, triggering a groan when Bard felt the slightest hint of teeth. Taking off Thranduil’s coat, Bard spread it out on the low table while Thranduil pulled off his tunic and the shirt underneath. Using one finger to tilt up Bard’s chin, Thranduil pressed another kiss to his mouth before moving to his neck. Bard shrugged off his coat and placed it over Thranduil’s, expecting a chill which never came. The Dwarves must have insulated the building well.

Reaching out to touch where Thranduil had been pierced by an arrow, there was no sign of a wound, not even raised flesh. Although he was as slender as all of his race, Thranduil had the build of a soldier. It surprised Bard how little he cared about Thranduil’s masculinity, even without his Elven beauty on display. He could ask Thranduil to remove the illusion of being mortal, but he was unready to be reminded of Thranduil’s age, nor how easily he had slaughtered Aduthir and his men. And Girion, whom he had humiliated, no matter how rightfully, after calling him a friend.

The distance between Thranduil and Bard could never be fully crossed, and that he would not forget.

As soon as Bard had yanked off both of his shirts, Thranduil’s hands were on him, exploring his body with flattering curiosity. He was careful of where Bard was still bruised from their capture, and particularly interested by the hair on Bard’s chest. “You haven’t a single scar,” Thranduil said.

“Dale has been at peace my whole life.” Something about Bard’s reply made Thranduil’s expression troubled, so Bard leaned in to shift his attention with a kiss. Bard inhaled as he felt Thranduil’s fingers on the waist of his trousers, pulling them down past his hips when Bard made no objection. Now almost entirely exposed, Bard found himself cleaving tightly to Thranduil, who was gently dragging his hands down Bard’s thighs, touching him everywhere but where he most wanted. After stepping out of his trousers and kicking his boots off in frustration, he lifted Thranduil up and onto the table, earning a pleased look of surprise for the effort.

Speaking low, Thranduil said, “I had almost forgotten how strong Men can be. Though you are so fragile otherwise, like a knife made from obsidian.”

Thranduil’s compliments always had a bite, though Bard knew not to pay them any heed. “You seem to relish our differences.”

“But you are unmoved by them?”  

“Not always as I would wish,” said Bard, pressing his lips to Thranduil’s before he could try to allay Bard’s misgivings. They clambered together until they were both stretched out on the table; it was endearing to learn that even Elves couldn’t shed their trousers with complete grace. Then their bodies were flush with each other, and Bard found himself already rubbing against Thranduil’s stomach as he grasped at his backside.  

“You would prefer to fuck me, wouldn’t you? And I will not take a kiss as an answer, convincing as yours are,” Thranduil asked.

How Thranduil must have learned the Dalish word ‘fuck’ made Bard’s “yes” come out harshly. Thranduil’s tongue dampening Bard’s fingers was as good as a request, and he was not ignorant of how such things were done. Settling between Thranduil’s legs, Bard slowly pushed two fingers into him, watching how he relaxed into the touch. Arousal pounded through his head. Being patient would be a trial, as all thoughts of Thranduil’s rank were fleeing from Bard’s mind. He pressed his fingers deeper, resisting the urge to be cautious after he saw it wasn’t needed. When he moved, Thranduil moved with him, wrapping his legs around Bard’s hips.

“You’re eager, for someone with all the time in the world,” Bard said, struggling to sound composed.

“Would staying motionless be more suitably elderly for you?”  

Bard frowned so he wouldn’t laugh, and bent forward to messily kiss from Thranduil’s jawline to his shoulder, using his teeth more than his tongue. When Bard circled his other hand around Thranduil’s erection, Thranduil finally gasped. Bard fought to ignore his own needs, concentrating instead on how he might make Thranduil lose more of his composure; already there was a faint spot of color on his cheeks and his breathing came heavier, and Bard wondered whether the blush was artful or his real complexion showing through. 

“You should lie on your back,” Thranduil said, his voice thickened. Bard would have refused a command, but the suggestion had him rushing to obey. 

The coats were a tolerable bed, although Thranduil’s weight as he sat down made Bard’s pelvis dig against the table. Thranduil spat in his hand before slicking up Bard’s cock, leaving it to Bard to go further. His first impulse was to be delicate, except Thranduil was looking at him the same way he did when he offered a challenge. So Bard held back a little of his normal gentleness, forcing past the tightness until he was fully inside. Though Thranduil stayed silent, his eyes went half-lidded with clear pleasure before he began to grind against Bard’s hips. Bard dug his head back into the hard table, trying to focus on the passing discomfort instead of being ridden. Noticing the movement, Thranduil leaned forward to slip his hand behind Bard’s neck, stopping him. Then he dragged his thumbnail over Bard’s skin, making the feeling build in his prick. 

“You don’t want me to last, do you?” Bard grit out.

“I know you can,” Thranduil said.

Bard thrust upwards while holding Thranduil’s hips steady, enjoying the slight tremble which overtook him. When Thranduil gasped, it was too much for Bard to remain as he was, and he sat up so he could bring Thranduil closer. Even that wasn’t enough, though Bard could feel his climax tugging at his endurance. Bard withdrew so he could move Thranduil onto his back, returning to their earlier position. Yet now Thranduil’s legs were spread wider, and Bard thought briefly of taking Thranduil into his mouth.

Using more spit to ease his way, Bard pushed himself back inside, holding Thranduil by the thighs so he could enter him more deeply. Bard reached down to touch him, stroking Thranduil’s prick the same way he would have done to bring himself over the edge, roughly and without any pause. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as Thranduil tensed his mouth. Looking at him suddenly became a strain; his vision blurred until he saw the illusion slide off Thranduil’s face, confronting him with the queer nature of who he was lying with. The blush Bard had noticed earlier was genuine, the sole mote of imperfection in his pale skin. Seeing Thranduil as he really was took the last of Bard’s self-control and he came without being able to give a warning. His senses in a fog, Bard focused on Thranduil’s pleasure, leaning over to kiss him while Thranduil tangled his fingers in Bard’s hair. As a dull pain flared in his lip, Bard felt Thranduil spill into his hand.

Not knowing how Thranduil wished to be treated afterwards, Bard did his best to give him space, no matter how much he wanted to catch his breath. After Bard probed at his lip with a clean finger, it came away with a few flecks of blood.

“You bit me,” Bard said.

“I’d take that as a compliment. If you’d like to clean off, there’s a rain barrel on either side of the building.”

That certainly was better than searching for some spare fabric. As Bard headed for the door, Thranduil added, “Are you going out there naked?”

“It’s good for your health!”

The cold was bracing, and it felt like Bard’s entire body contracted with the wind. But at least it was above freezing, so he only had to break through a thin layer of ice to get to the fresh water in the barrel. He washed himself in a hurry, and his appreciation for Dwarven buildings grew with every chilly second. Feeling restored, Bard rushed inside to put his clothes back on. Thranduil had already gone out, leaving Bard with the good company of his thoughts.

He was worried. Not so much about what he had done with Thranduil—for that had been straightforward, though the question of whether Girion had done the same was not easily put out of his head—but rather, what would come after their quest was over.  The Orcish raid on the farmhouse had been a recent one, and Bard did not trust how quickly Thranduil had dismissed the threat of Bolg. And would he have a home when he returned, or had the Master already declared Bard and his line extinct, so he could apportion the house to someone he liked better?

Bard brooded until Thranduil’s reappearance at the door spared him from thinking further. Thranduil was fully dressed, seeming as refreshed as if he’d just come out of the bath.

“How are you faring? Bettered by the elements?” Thranduil asked.

“I’m well enough.”

Though Thranduil raised an eyebrow, he did not press the question. “Dwarven shelter is not to my taste, least of all on the solstice, so I will be walking through Framsburg tonight.”

“In Laketown, we have bonfires on the shore.”

“Do your newly married couples still walk over the embers?”

“They do.”

“When the Northmen first settled here, they would sacrifice calves. And criminals too, strangled and buried. The Dúnedain forced an end to the practice when they arrived.”

Bard noted to himself that he should thank the next Dúnedan he met. “And the Elves did not?”

“We were never your masters in this country. And you still hang your criminals, so there is little difference to me.” 

“How does Mirkwood celebrate? Not by strangling anyone, I would assume.”

“My people are singing songs to Elbereth, and will be stumbling drunk within the hour. Perhaps not this time, since I am gone.” Thranduil turned thoughtful, as if something were weighing on him. “It’s unlikely that I will return before morning. I will try not to wake you.”

 “Because Elves are naturally so heavy-footed.”

Thranduil smiled and put his hand on Bard’s shoulder, letting the touch linger even as he turned towards the door. “Sleep well. Being so near to Gundabad has a way of entering one’s dreams.”

“Good night.”

“And you,” Thranduil replied, just before shutting the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard immediately running naked into the cold to play around with freezing water "for health reasons" is based on an anecdote from a friend about living in Siberia, where he was told by all the old folks that the key to longevity is heading outside in your pajamas to dump water on your head. 
> 
> Human sacrifice was a pretty common thing among pre-Christian Viking peoples, and if you've ever wanted to read poems about preserved bog bodies, check out Seamus Heaney!
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Gawain and the Green Knight."
> 
> [Nisie](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/) did a very [sexy illustration](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/120958438742/i-drew-some-artwork-for-the-newest-chapter-of-the) for this scene on her tumblr.


	10. drums, drums in the deep

“Da, it’s too warm. Has summer come early?” Tilda asked, shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see familiar walls of his own home, and Tilda’s worried face. 

Bard’s throat was dry, as if he were far downriver in Rhûn, yet summer in Laketown was humid. The ashes in the stove were cold.  

“Stay here while I check outside.”

Laketown was silent as a barrow. There were no people, no boats, not even wind; just the dry heat, peeling the breath from Bard’s lungs. The only living thing was the dragon. He forced his bloated gut over the rooftops, crawling forward like a hobbled dog. His scales were a shining red, with a golden belly that reflected the light from burning Laketown.

“You,” Smaug said, and the word would have echoed if there were more air. When he cast his eyes on Bard, it was like being gripped in a great fist. “I know your stink. The reek of the Lords of Dale—thralls of Gondor, friends of Elf and Dwarf and Easterling, Middle Men who bow and scrape and eke out coin, who die gray-haired and old. Humbly born and meekly ended you will be, Girion’s whelp.”

No terror had ever held Bard so fast as the dragon’s gaze. Helplessness locked his limbs and numbed his tongue. As Smaug breathed in, fire kindled in his chest. But when the flames came, Bard did not burn. He felt a cooling hand on his forehead, and calm slowed his racing heart as Laketown faded. Bard struggled to rouse himself, briefly seeing Thranduil kneeling by him before he fell into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Instead of the stifling panic which always brought him out of his nightmares, Bard awoke to the light of dawn filtering in through the small, amber-colored windows. He was comfortable and warm for the first time in nearly a week, though he felt weary when he recalled the past night. There were no regrets, but the change from pushing barrels up and downstream to going on mysterious quests and bedding Elvenkings was not easily made. And dreaming of the dragon frightened him more than the Orcs of Gundabad. Smaug had known him. After dressing himself and forcing down some aged Dwarven waybread, he went to check on the horses.

Thranduil was there, looking remarkably clear-eyed for someone who had spent the night wandering. Though he had not resumed his disguise, there was a hint of shadow under his eyes, and the way he held himself showed that Elves could seem tired after all. The horse nuzzled back into Thranduil’s hand, making Bard flinch to remember the animal’s former master.

“Thank you, for whatever you did during my nightmare,” Bard said.

“It was nothing. Was that the first time you’ve dreamt of Smaug?” Thranduil asked.

“No, though he was never in Laketown before,” Bard replied. “When I was a boy, I snuck into Dale with my friends, and had nightmares of the dragon for weeks. They did not seem a fair punishment for a child’s daring.”

“Did the other children share your dreams?”

Bard shook his head. “There is not much fear of the dragon left in Laketown.”

“May they remain so lucky. I have faced a dragon, and that one was younger than Smaug, with only a small part of his evil.” A needle-thin line of fire appeared down his cheek, gone so quickly Bard was not sure he had truly seen it. “Are you ready to leave? If we arrive when the sun is at its highest, the Orcs will be half-blind and hiding from the light.”

“I think I am. I have never considered such a grim errand before.”

“We live in grim times. The Dwarf-lords of Gundabad built many paths into the mountain, and not all of them are known to the Orcs. One leads very near to where I must go, and should be unwatched.”

“What if it is?”  

Hesitating as he had when Bard first asked what his purpose was, Thranduil at last answered, “I will not endanger your life.”

What went unspoken was that Thranduil was certainly willing to endanger his own. Perhaps Bard should have accompanied Thranduil earlier; he had thought him driven to worship the stars or simply wishing to avoid awkwardness, but something powerful had worked on Thranduil in the night, and Bard could not guess what it was. Aduthir had said that Thranduil was touched by darkness, and he had not denied it.

They left without speaking further. Bard had only foreboding for company, as Thranduil’s silence rode with them through the scourged heath surrounding Gundabad.  Without Thranduil’s histories of every rock and hill, Bard’s dread increased with the desolation. The sun which was supposed to guard them from hostile eyes kept passing behind clouds, and its graying light bleached the land beneath it. Mount Gundabad grew larger before them, the Orcish towers and buildings protruding from it as if it were a crab pulled from the Outer Sea. Yet Gundabad looked abandoned—there was no sign of supplies moving to and fro, nor even a faint plume of smoke from a fire.  

“The Dwarven stair is just over there,” Thranduil said, pointing straight at the Misty Mountains.

“I see nothing.”

“Good. The wind has not yet exposed it.”

When they reached the foot of the mountain, there was no stair; only rocks, shrubs, and a few noisy ravens.  

“We’re dismounting here,” said Thranduil.

“I still cannot see your stair,” Bard replied, though he did get down from his horse.

“Look for it while I tether the horses.”

Bard’s approach disturbed the ravens clustered on the slope, which hopped away and cawed at him. As he walked along the mountainside, the ravens followed him, always keeping the same distance. Perhaps the two of them had come so far just to be defeated by Thranduil’s sense of direction.

One of the ravens vanished in front of Bard’s eyes. The three remaining birds were unbothered by the loss of their friend. His suspicions about the invisible stair deepened when the missing raven reappeared a few feet away with a vole halfway down its gullet. Bard halted directly across from where the raven had gone out of sight and held out his hand, his senses telling him that he would be stopped by a rock. Instead, he touched air.

“It’s a trick of the light!” There were a few steps chiseled into the rock, but most of the ‘stair’ was irregularly carved stone on either side, designed to make distant eyes see nothing but mountainside while people walked along the pathway.

“An extremely clever one,” Thranduil said, rejoining Bard. He led the way upwards, traveling where Bard sometimes had trouble seeing where the path and the mountain separated. “Dwarves have an incredible understanding of stone. We should be invisible until a few hours past midday.”

“How did the stair come to be here?”

“The Dwarves held Gundabad before the Orcs ever did, and some did not trust that evil could ever truly be driven from Middle-earth, so they secretly built this stair. They were proven right when Sauron sacked the mountain. The survivors sought refuge with me, and now you are the second person in many centuries to know this path exists at all.”  

The stair had to be at least three miles long. How much fear could have driven them to labor for years on something which all of them hoped would be useless?

“You allowed Dwarves into your kingdom?”

“They did not always make themselves unwelcome.”

Though they were protected from view, the stair was fully exposed to the wind, and the stone walls acted as more of a funnel than a shield. Bard pulled his coat closer around him, wishing for a hat and gloves. They passed by a rusted metal casket, halfway-open to reveal an ancient set of needles and spools. There were more signs of haste along the trail, spilled household goods preserved by the stair’s isolation. Thranduil abruptly stepped aside from a pile of rags, disturbing the rocks with clumsiness which was entirely unlike him. A Dwarven skull rolled past Bard’s feet, bouncing off one of the walls with a crack.

“The spirit has already gone across the Sea, beyond all pain,” Thranduil whispered to himself, “but never to leave this world.”

The farther they went, the more Thranduil weakened. His skin had the clammy look of fever, and he walked like a drunkard. Gundabad was near enough that Bard could see the empty battlements, but there was also a cloud of steam coming from a distant tower.

“Ignore the sickness,” said Thranduil, while he staggered and steadied himself with one hand against the wall. “Elves should not remain in Middle-earth forever, no matter how much we desire it. My spirit diminishes my body a little every day, until I will become nothing more than a creeping feeling down a woodcutter’s spine, or a fairy light to disturb travelers down the river. Violence, for all its horrors, spares us from leaving by our own choice.”

“We should turn back,” Bard said. “This journey is killing you.”

“I must see the grave,” Thranduil replied. His eyes looked flat and lightless.

“And what will you do then? Throw yourself on top of it? Dig her up?”

“If you want your children returned to you, you would help me do either.” Thranduil massaged his temple, grimacing in pain. “That corrupted Gondorian spoke truly when he said there was evil in me, clawing at the corners of my mind, hollowing a place for itself. I know how the spider feels as a wasp grows inside it; there is no space left for me. Ah, here we are.”

The field beneath them was not entirely barren, though it stretched before one of Gundabad’s gates. A long, low mound went along one side, with patches of green grass showing through the snow.

“Here is where I was a coward,” Thranduil said, speaking without emotion. “A dragon mastered me and toyed with me by burning half my body.  He would have killed me if my wife had not defied him long enough for me to be dragged away. I was too out of my senses to watch her end, though I have seen her die countless times in my dreams. I have never seen where she was buried before now.”

Thranduil had an unsettling calm about him as he kept his eyes on the barrow. Though he knew there was no comfort for his loss, Bard started to reach out to him when he was frozen by the sudden clamorous beating of drums. Black smoke billowed from the closest towers, embers brightly burning within the thick plumes while the drums grew louder. As the great gate creaked and rumbled, Thranduil leaned forward, his body pulled taut with a hunger not his own. Darkness had been driving him to Gundabad all this time, drawing on grief and shame until he was willing to deliver himself to the enemy.

The gates opened, and a host of Orcs spilled out, their footsteps muffled under the blaring of war horns. Their black armor rippled like waves, as if they were a tide of a monstrous sea. Thranduil took one step before Bard stopped him, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him as tightly as he could. Bard expected an argument as Thranduil struggled, but instead Thranduil turned savage and wordless, pushing back against him and scrambling to break Bard’s grip. Thranduil hooked one leg behind Bard’s and sent Bard falling backwards, landing so heavily on his left elbow he almost let go. He rolled them over, struggling to keep Thranduil under him. It was like wrestling with a serpent. While Thranduil spat out words in a growling language, Bard pressed the side of Thranduil’s face in the dirt, his skin overtaken by the old burn as his eyes took on a fell light. Bard held him down as the drums beat closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a bit of a cliffhanger, wasn't it? 
> 
> Chapter title comes from "The Bridge of Khazad-dûm" chapter of _The Fellowship of the Ring_.
> 
> The ending scene's resemblance to the engagement of Peleus and Thetis may not have been entirely incidental.


	11. the dragon-slayer

The Orcish host seemed endless. Thranduil kept thrashing beneath Bard, madly enough that Bard feared injuring him before the fit passed—if it passed at all. He clawed at the dirt, as if he would drag himself on his belly towards Gundabad and certain death or capture. Bard was growing tired, and knew his strength could not hold out against Thranduil’s forever.

When the last of the Orcs went out of sight, Thranduil stilled at last. His breathing was steady, his usual calm restored. “Is it over?” Bard asked. At Thranduil’s nod, Bard released him, though he stayed close as they both got to their feet.  

“The darkness has passed,” he replied. One of his cheeks had been scraped raw by gravel and he was half-covered in dirt, but he looked somehow fresher than he had in his Mirkwood finery. It was as if even time sat lighter on his shoulders. He embraced Bard, whispering his thanks so sincerely that Bard almost stammered that it had been nothing to go on a journey which had nearly killed him. 

Yet Thranduil’s expression was still troubled when he looked to Gundabad. “My mind is my own again. I had thought the Necromancer in the South was no more than a stray wizard. Only Sauron could have wormed his way so fully into my head, taken my regret and grief and turned both against me. He meant for me to deliver myself to his servants, and bring all of Mirkwood under his power.” 

So that was the reason for Thranduil’s changeability. Bard would almost prefer Thranduil were simply mad, rather than to have the Dark Lord’s tale rise from the dead. “What must we do now?”

“Go home. Your children are certainly just waking up in my halls, and my people will be glad to care for them.”

“And Sauron?” As glad as he was at the thought of being with his children again, they had awoken to a harsher world than Bard had thought. “If you’re right, that puts the Dark Lord only a few days march from Lake-town, and in your very woods.”

With a shake of his head, Thranduil replied, “We must do nothing too quickly. Haste is often poor council.” Looking almost abashed, he added, “I have led you on a mad quest, and you returned that ill-favor by saving my life. That is no small debt between us.”

“I imagine you will have to do something very kingly to clear it.”   

Though the stair hid them from Bolg’s army, they would have to cross the plain carefully—and quickly—to avoid being discovered. Thranduil descended the stair nimbly, unfairly invigorated by their wrestling match. He held out his arm to bring Bard to a stop, holding one finger to his lips. The Ranger they had seen on the road was stalking around the foot of the stair, looking for the entrance. Lodric’s horse, however, had other ideas for him, and was butting at his shoulder. He turned to scratch the mare’s neck, with an Elf’s wont to be distracted by animals.

“Why aren’t you tied up, old girl?” he said. “You’re far from Rohan. Where is your rider?”

The horse snorted at him.

“The Dúnadan tracked us,” said Thranduil. “And he stopped among my people first, judging by the horse he has tethered up. Though he is no threat to us, do not speak to him of Sauron until I do.”

When Thranduil and Bard stepped off the stair, the Dúnadan tried to disguise how he started. He relaxed his hand where he had gripped his sword hilt, with such speed that Bard had not even seen the first movement.

 “I thought I had seen your face before,” Thranduil said, “but I know it now. You are Elrond’s ward, Estel.”

“I was,” he replied, smiling. “I go by Strider in the wilds. As for you, King Thranduil, I must apologize for my poor greeting when we first met. Your son bid me to find you in all haste to correct it.” Strider bowed his head.

“Was that all?”

“He also, respectfully, wishes that I guard you on your way back to the halls. I was not the only one sent to find you. My companions had to scatter to avoid the Orcs and bandits roaming the plain, and some are still on their way to Rivendell. Have you learned anything of why the land has turned so dangerous?”

“That is better left for the safety of my halls than discussed in the open,” said Thranduil.

“And the army?” asked Strider.

If he had not spent so long with Thranduil, Bard would have missed his brief look of worry. “A marching exercise. They had no baggage train.”

After they had all mounted their horses, Strider traveled ahead. He had a good memory for the land, and steered them along a winding track he assured them would keep clear of enemies.

“Still, the Orcs of Gundabad will move soon,” Strider said, persisting against the king’s wishes. “They must. I have seen signs of gathering war throughout the North.”

“You deliver ill news with such feeling I could almost mistake you for a wizard.”

Strider fell silent, and Bard wondered again how old he was. Perhaps no more than five and twenty, with a face grown serious before its time.

“How are Elrond and Arwen faring?” Thranduil asked.

That single question spared Bard a few days’ ride in awkward quiet, for Strider was as much of a storyteller as Thranduil, and could not speak enough about the beauty, grace, and kindness of Arwen Evenstar. Arwen’s life history and lineage brought them nearly to the borders of Mirkwood, where the talk finally turned to the learning of Elrond. Bard was content just to listen, and keep his head clear of how much had happened.

But when they at last reached Thranduil’s stables, it was all Bard could do not to leap off his horse and run into the halls. The grooms smiled as they took the horses from the party, and one had tears in her eyes as she wished Thranduil well. Then he heard three pairs of running feet, and turned to see Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda rushing towards him.

“Da!”

He barely had time to hold out his arms before they reached him. Bard couldn’t speak for happiness; they were unchanged save for the Elvish clothes they were wearing, smelling of soap and the woods. There were so many times he had feared they were lost to him forever, and now Tilda was sobbing into his shirt and even Bain was crying.

“We worried you’d never come back,” Sigrid said, “that something horrible would happen to you in the wilds.”

“I told you he would,” Tilda mumbled.

“Of course I came back,” Bard replied.

It was a long time before Bard could bring himself to release them. Sigrid and Bain did their best to look as if they were above clinging to their father. Bard had to wipe his eyes on his sleeve before he said, “Now tell me how you’ve behaved yourselves among the Elves.”

All of the Wood-elves were celebrating the return of their king, and the halls echoed with laughter and the sounds of a feast being prepared. The Elves were fascinated by Bard’s children, and they had clearly been affectionately spoiled in his absence. They were particularly fond of Tilda, whose eyes grew so wide with wonder around them that Bard might have to throw her over his shoulder to get her back to Lake-town. 

Tauriel found Bard trying to retreat from all the bustling. The maze-like nature of the halls made it impossible to find a quiet spot.

“It has been a long time since there were any children here—not since the Necromancer settled in the South,” Tauriel said.

“I’d think the tales of Elves kidnapping children in the night were true, to judge by how much joy they take in them.”

“I hope you will not hold us strangers, after you leave.”

That Bard did not know. He had not had a moment with Thranduil since they arrived, for he had years of lax rule to set right. What was the right thing to do? It had not been a romance, what they had done on the road, but he felt they had become friends, of a kind. “I would like to visit again,” Bard replied.

“Good.” Tauriel had a similar look to Thranduil, when he had declared his debt to Bard. “You have done more for my lord than any of us. We all knew darkness was preying upon him, but we did not know how to cure it.”

“All I truly did was hold him down at the right time.”

Tauriel laughed. “Well, none of us were there to help. I’m sure he didn’t make it easy for you, either.”

“That he did not.”

Dinner was the sort that Strider could have woven into a tale. Bard had to watch Tilda so she would not eat too much, and allowed Bain to have a little wine. The Wood-elves themselves drank more than Dwarves; as for the Dwarves in the dungeon, he overheard that they had escaped downriver in barrels while the Elves slept off the solstice. He hoped Bilbo’s burgling was over with.

When the feast finally ended, Bard was ready to climb into bed and sleep off the past few weeks. Thranduil, however, asked him to meet him in his chambers.

“There is still the matter of your reward,” Thranduil said.

Bard wanted to joke about magic rings, but he could not seem to be as friendly with Thranduil now that reminders of his authority were all around them. Bargemen teased no Elven lords in any of the songs Bard knew. He followed Thranduil back to the room where Bard had first pledged his fealty. Thranduil fetched a small chest and set it on the table, opening it to reveal a wealth of gold and gems.

While Bard was stunned by the treasure, Thranduil said, “This does not clear my debt.”

“It doesn’t?” It would buy a mansion in Lake-town. Bard could start a business and run it at a loss for years before he would have to stint.

“There is enough gold in this chest to get you to Bree, or even as far south as Minas Tirith. The Dwarves which escaped me mean to wake Smaug in his den. You have dreamed of the dragon, and though I am not so skilled a seer as the Lady of Lórien, I think you will find your fate entwined with his. You must not fear the call of your doom.”

The memory of Smaug alone was enough to chill Bard’s blood. He could not fight against that towering evil, with his flame and terrible voice. “I am no hero, my lord. I am descended from merchants and raiders, though they were more successful than their fellows.”

“I knew a dragon-slayer who was descended from the greatest of Men, and that lineage did him no good in the end. Bravery and a strong arm will do you better than a famous name.” As Bard doubted himself, Thranduil took Bard’s hands in his. “Perhaps you will have no need. But I believe that when you are tested, you will not falter. Fare thee well, Bard. I hope we meet again in peaceful times.”

Thranduil’s sudden ‘thou’ was as unexpected as the kiss which was followed, though Bard was thankful for both. No one had used thou in Dale in a hundred years, and Bard felt like Thranduil had dusted off some old part of the language to present as an act of trust.

* * *

Lake-town was how Bard had left it: controlled by a corrupt Master and filled with innocent people whose homes were helpless against dragon-fire. But he was glad to see it, and his girls crowded the front of the barge so they could have their first glimpse of home.

“Are you still thinking of moving away, Da?” Sigrid asked.

“What makes you think I want to?”

“The chest you’ve hidden beneath the tiller,” said Bain.

“I don’t like our aunt in Bree,” added Tilda. “I want to live with the Elves.”

“And what will you do, when you grow into an old woman and they don’t want to play with you anymore?” Sigrid said.

“I won’t get old because I’ll marry one of them,” Tilda replied, rolling her eyes. “The prince, or the pretty guard captain.” 

“The redhead?” Bain spluttered. “But she’s a lady!”

“She’s very kind! And have you never noticed the two women who live a few houses down from ours? Honestly, Bain, you’re hopeless.”

Bard had to hide his laughter behind his sleeve. The children fell quiet as they came closer to the gate. Alfrid was waiting for them, hiding behind his furs and guards.

“So, you’ve come back,” Alfrid said. “I see your children are here—where’s Harald?”

“Eaten by spiders.”

Tilting his head, Alfrid asked, “Did your children then eat the spiders? Because they’re looking awfully well-fed. Rather like you’ve come across some good fortune in the midst of all this tragedy. Mind if I check around?”

“There’s no need.”

Alfrid stepped onto the boat, tapping with his boot against the boards. “We’ve had some strange things coming out of Mirkwood, like Dwarves in wine barrels. The master sent them off to either bring back some gold, or feed the dragon.” Raising his eyebrows when a board sounded hollow, he took out his knife. “Funny thing about most of these boats is that they all have secret compartments!” He started to pry up the board, grinning when he found the chest and unlatched it. “Oh my, you’ve had such good fortune up the river. This will keep the Master’s cousin quite comfortable in her widowhood.”

“That is _mine_ , lackey.”

Alfrid triumphantly snapped the chest shut. “And now it’s the Master’s. That is how government works, bargeman.”

That chest was his children’s safety, a secure future and a way out of Lake-town. Bard clenched his fists, wishing he could give Alfrid half the beating he deserved.

“Men,” Alfrid snapped, “kindly put Bard under arrest, for withholding property gained under questionable circumstances.”

The guards seized him at once, yanking him up and off the boat while others held his children back.

“You can’t! I have three children—“

“You should have thought of them before you tried to smuggle a little gold. Nice new coat, by the way. Looks like it’s from Rohan.”

“Bain,” Bard said, forcing himself to sound calm, “you’re the eldest, so you’ve got to take care of the others. I’ll be out soon.”

Bain nodded and tried to hold himself taller as Bard was led away.

* * *

It was not the first time the Master had imprisoned him for petty reasons. Bard imagined the look on his face as he got his fingers on the treasure, admiring the wealth of Mirkwood and telling everyone some tired lie about how Bard must have stolen it, or invented a new tax just to make it his. Perhaps a little of it would go to Harald’s widow. Bard kicked the thin wall in frustration.

He stared out the barred window, watching the stars come out over the lake. A shadow passed over them, blackening the night as Bard heard wingbeats like thunder. Flame blazed over the lake, and the first houses caught fire. Bard would not wait to burn, unarmed as he was. He still feared the dragon, the echoes of Smaug’s challenge still pounding in his head. Thranduil had said that dragons do not die before their time.

Smaug’s evil would end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, dear readers, is the end. 
> 
> This fic was an attempt to answer some major questions I had in the movie, including: 
> 
> \- how to make Bard and Thranduil smooch  
> \- where did Bard's coat come from  
> \- but why was Thranduil so obsessed with a necklace that looked like it came from Claire's  
> \- would Thranduil have had a crush on Túrin Turambar (yes)  
> \- why does Thranduil know Aragorn when he's supposed to be like, 10 years old  
> \- how can I make this even more of a Beowulf AU
> 
> Small additional note: 'thou/thee' are relics of Ye Aulde Former Englysshe informal you. If you 'thou' someone you are either being very rude or very intimate. We can assume by Bard's reaction that he wasn't under the impression that Thranduil was about to tell him to fetch him some more wine.


End file.
